


Judgement Day

by StrayxMonarch



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jeller, Penance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayxMonarch/pseuds/StrayxMonarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S1 finale. Jane faces her fate, setting events in motion that will decide the fate of the entire team</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trial

**Author's Note:**

> "So strike me down, take me away  
> Debts are due, it's time to pay  
> Face what I deserve  
> Here comes judgement day  
> I won't run, the guilt is mine  
> Too long denying all my crimes  
> Face what I deserve  
> Here comes judgement day"  
> -Judgement Day, Stealth

For an amnesiac, she'd experienced her fair share of déjà vu.

Mirrors built into white walls, utilitarian furniture, the narrow-eyed gazes that painted suspicion on her like a second skin. Or third.

Her second life had begun in this room, and now, all these months later, she had come full circle; no longer _Jane Doe_ , unidentified potential-victim and possible former abducted child. Now, her third life had begun, a mirror of the second; now, she was still Jane Doe— not the name she was born with, but the name that those she loved had called her, and the name she was going to keep— but this time, she was _Jane Doe_ , the traitor. The liar. Manipulator. Murderer.

She was both the victim and the mastermind of her own plan, a villain that only ended up hurting those she most wanted to protect.

But today, at least they would understand _why_. They wouldn't understand everything— how could they, when there was still so much even _she_ didn't know— but they would at least have the truth. And even if she was thrown into that dark hole Carter had promised her for the rest of her life, even if she never saw the team— saw _Weller_ — again, maybe they could use what she told them to finally find answers. To find justice for Mayfair, find a way to take down Shepherd and Orion, or whomever else was responsible for sparking the blaze that had caused all this destruction.

Maybe, through them, some small measure of good could come from her existence. Maybe they could find closure and be able to put the events of the last several months behind them.

Put _her_ behind them.

But in order to help them do that, she had to face them this one last time. Just the thought of seeing them now— her friends, her _family_ — brought her out in a sweat, twisting something deep in her stomach. She hadn't seen any of them since that night in the safehouse almost a week ago, when Weller had wordlessly handed her off to some faceless agent and walked away, his hatred of her so strong that he couldn't even bear to be in her presence any longer than it took to close the cuffs around her wrists, to strip her of all she had done and become over the last several months, everything they had shared.

There was nothing that they shared now, not anymore.

After Weller had left, the agents had taken her to the NYO, she knew that— knew the journey there like the road to home. Except that home was now once more a prison, and as she'd been tossed into the cold embrace of her old cell, she'd felt the circle of her second life closing like a noose around her neck, just waiting for the moment she would fall.

It wasn't exactly like last time, though. This time, she'd been placed under total lockdown, seeing only the unfamiliar faces of her guards and the two cold-eyed agents who brought her back to this interview room day after day.

She hadn't even seen Borden.

Once, she'd thought maybe she'd heard Patterson's voice coming from the corridor near her cell, but she couldn't be sure, her mind already playing tricks on her in the echoing silence.

One thing she _was_ sure of, though, was that during each of her interrogations— if they could even be called that, given that she never said more than a handful of words during each of them— Weller was there on the other side of that mirror, his presence almost a tangible thing, his piercing stare burning into her inked skin like he was trying to see who she was concealing underneath.

Even with the mirror and the yards of space between them, she'd wanted to shrink from his gaze, wanted to hide away from the betrayal and hatred she knew she would see smoldering within it. The thought of facing it today— with no barriers and nowhere to hide— left her nauseated, terrified; and yet, she'd _asked_ for this. Every day since her arrest, she'd obediently sat in this chair and let them cuff her to the table, then lifted her chin, her voice clear.

_I will only make my confession to Agents Weller, Reade, Zapata, Patterson, and Dr Borden._

Then, she'd sat there silently while the men hurled questions at her, loud and demanding and gentle and imploring by turns, trying every tactic they'd ever been taught. Every day, she'd said the same thing, and every day they'd ignored her, so she'd ignored them; ignored their questions and their insults, their bargaining and their threats.

Until today.

Today, finally, her guards had deposited her in the room and informed her coldly that she'd be getting her wish; getting the audience she so desperately seemed to want for whatever little circus trick she planned to perform.

And as far as she could tell— the lack of clocks in this room and her cell was just another way they showed her they owned her, that she wasn't _real_ — that had been close to fifteen minutes ago.

Eventually, that door would open, and everyone that she cared about— with the exception of Sarah and Sawyer— would be there before her, looking at her with eyes full of hurt and broken trust, accusing eyes, hateful eyes. Eyes that only a week ago had shone with warmth, friendship… maybe even love.

But not anymore.

If she was luckier than she deserved, Borden might still look at her with some measure of the gentleness and compassion he'd always shown her, a look that had eased her fears and soothed her pain so many times since the day she'd climbed from that bag, her mind a blank canvas and her body an overflowing one. Of all of them, he was the only one who she could hope might not completely abandon her to her fate. The only one who might truly understand.

And maybe, in whatever dark pit they threw her into, she might still get one visitor.

Just as she had that thought, she heard the scrape of boots outside, then the familiar click of the lock, and immediately she felt her heart pound harder, her eyes darting to the door as it swung slowly open, allowing her visitors— formerly her family, now her jury— to file through.

Unsurprisingly, Tasha was first, her expression professional, reserved; though Jane was almost sure she saw the hardness in her eyes flicker for a moment, a brief flash of emotion that was quickly stamped out. Glancing down, Jane saw that one of her hands was held slightly out to the side; the small, restraining— or perhaps protective— gesture directed at Patterson, who trailed close on her heels, peering past her friend with an upset, conflicted expression. As they approached the interrogation table, Reade followed silently behind, his expression betraying nothing, his eyes as shuttered as she'd ever seen them.

When Patterson chose the chair directly opposite her, Reade took the one immediately to her left, while Tasha remained standing behind the chair to Patterson's right, the two of them flanking their weaker teammate. Protecting her from the threat.

From _her_.

Swallowing back her hurt, she looked to the doorway as Dr Borden stepped into view, watching as he glanced back behind him into the corridor, as if he'd just paused briefly to speak with someone outside. She felt a tiny part of her tremble when his eyes met hers; his gaze was warm and clear, that same gentle brown she'd known since the beginning of her second life. With the tiniest hint of a nod, he took hold of the chair beside Tasha's and gracefully shifted it around the side of the table before settling into it, his new position placing him almost halfway between her and the others.

She didn't miss the tiny warning looks both Tasha and Reade shot in his direction— she was a danger, a _monster_ , after all— but she watched him calmly ignore them, his posture betraying not a hint of fear as he examined her with his usual perceptive gaze. After a moment, Tasha rolled her eyes, then shifted slightly closer to him, placing herself more evenly between him and Patterson, her hands relaxed as they rested on the back of her chair, and yet her stance alert, ready.

Almost a full minute had passed since the team had begun filing through the door, and yet, the doorway behind them remained empty.

Breathing slowly and deliberately, Jane fought the urge to fidget, knowing that all of their eyes were on her but still unable to stop herself from watching the door, searching for him, waiting, hoping. There was so much she needed to tell him to his face— but almost more than that, she just needed to _see_ him, one last time.

Whoever she'd been in her first life, she knew she'd said goodbye to the man she loved in order to start the next. Now, she would do the same— but unlike with Oscar, she would be gone from Kurt's life for good, her existence no longer a threat to his.

But first, he needed to be here.

The open door was the only thing that allowed her to hold onto hope— the guards had to be awaiting someone, because surely otherwise they would have locked it the moment the others had passed through, ensuring she had absolutely zero chance of making an escape.

Like she had anywhere to go.

Just as her thoughts began growing increasingly desperate— what if he really didn't come, what did she do then?— he suddenly loomed in the doorway, his stride determined as he entered the room and signaled for the door to close behind him. Keeping his sightline at a level that allowed him to look straight over their heads, he ignored the remaining chair beside Reade— which, aside from Borden's, was the closest one to her— and immediately moved to lean against the side wall, the furthest he could be from her while also keeping her out of his direct line of vision.

"Let's get this done," he said brusquely, speaking to no one in particular, his eyes focused on the opposite side of the room.

After a couple of beats of tense silence, Borden leaned forward, drawing her attention away from Weller, his voice gentle, encouraging.

"Go ahead, Jane."

For a week she'd been thinking about this moment; about all the things she had to tell them, all the secrets she'd kept, the things she'd done. And now, the moment was finally here.

Clearing her throat, she let her eyes skitter between each of them, then looked down at her hands.

"Please just let me get all of this out before you ask anything, okay?"

Then, knowing that these were the last words she would ever say to them, she drew in a deep breath, and started at the beginning.

Keeping her eyes fixed on her cuffed hands, she let the words pour out, telling them everything— about Carter and her abduction, about Oscar and all that he'd told her about her past, about the missions he'd given her and the threats he'd made towards the team, even about seducing him and using his feelings for her former self to gain information and keep him from acting on his threats.

She told it all as calmly and clinically as she could, but when it came to telling them about Mayfair, she faltered, fighting the tears that burned the back of her eyes for the mentor and friend she had betrayed. But she blinked back the tears and determinedly pushed on, telling them of Oscar's involvement and his eventual fate after trying to wipe her in the barn. She talked until she was almost out of breath, and aside from the occasional tiny shocked inhale or swallowed exclamation, they all respected her request, none of them uttering a single word as she poured out all of her sins.

When she was finally finished, she felt her shoulders slump, her head dizzy with something that almost felt like relief, her eyes briefly falling shut.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, tentatively, Patterson spoke up.

"And this is _everything_ you know about these Orion people?"

Jane nodded, her eyes down.

"And you kept it from us, firstly because you were using them to find out information about your past and about Taylor Shaw, and then because they threatened our lives if you told?"

Again, Jane nodded.

"Is there anything else you want to say?"

"I'm sorry. For everything," Jane murmured, "That's all."

With that, the room lapsed into silence once more, the moment stretching.

Then Weller pushed abruptly away from the wall, striding wordlessly to the door before banging once with his fist to be let out. Immediately the door opened, and— watched by all of the room's other occupants— he strode through, disappearing into the corridor outside.

"Well," Reade sighed, rising from his chair, "Now we know. C'mon, Patterson."

Patterson looked up at him, a look of distress crossing her face. Then, she reluctantly stood and moved away from the table, pausing after a couple of steps to turn back.

"This isn't the end, Jane," she promised earnestly, then turned away, her shoulders hunching as she trailed after Reade. Zapata gave Jane one last evaluating look, then nodded slightly and followed, the room emptying until only Dr Borden remained.

Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she saw compassion there, and _understanding_ , her eyes once more burning with the tears she'd fought so hard to keep back.

"Give them a little time to process, Jane, and I truly believe they will come to understand. Even Assistant Director Weller."

"Would you look out for him for me?" Jane asked hoarsely, eyes pleading. "He's been through so much, I just—"

When she cut herself off, sucking in a shuddering breath, Borden tilted his head.

"You care about him, even still."

"I care about all of them," Jane said firmly, "All of _you_. You're… family. But Weller…"

Clenching her hands into fists, she swallowed hard.

"Just be there for him, please? And tell the others I said goodbye."

Borden frowned. "Goodbye?"

Lifting her head, Jane slowly raised a single, sardonic brow, trying to hide how much her heart was currently being ripped apart in her chest. "Not like I'm going to see any of you again, is it? Not with where they're going to put me after everything I've done."

Borden leaned closer, his frown deepening. "Jane, they're not—"

He was interrupted by the appearance of her guards at the door, their hands on their weapons. "Apologies, Dr Borden, but we have to take the prisoner now. She's to be transferred to another facility."

Shooting Borden a meaningful look, Jane remained still and submissive as the guards approached, detaching her cuffs from the table before linking them up with her leg chains.

"May I enquire where this other facility might be?" Borden asked politely, but she could sense he was deeply disturbed, even worried.

"Sorry sir, I'm afraid we don't know ourselves. We're just to take her to the handover point. The orders came from high up."

With a nudge, the guards began ushering her to the door, and Borden followed, carefully controlling his expression.

"Jane, this does not end here. You will be seeing us— all of us— again, I assure you."

Twisting to look over her shoulder at him, she locked her gaze with his, unable to keep the fear from her eyes. "Promise me you'll look after them," she said a little desperately, feeling her fate closing in on her like a guillotine descending on her neck. "Especially Weller."

"I promise, Jane," Borden told her clearly, his eyes never leaving hers.

Pressing her lips into a tremulous smile, she gave him a small nod. "Goodbye, Dr Borden. Thank you for everything."

Then, she broke his gaze and turned away, letting the guards march her through the fire doors, hearing them slam shut behind her as she was drawn away from the interrogation room— away from the workplace that had provided her new life with purpose and meaning, away from the family she'd found and lost, and away from the man who so completely owned her heart, even if he didn't know it.

She may still have all of her memories, but even so, it was clear to her that her third life would begin just as her second had.

Alone.


	2. Verdict

"What do you mean, _Jane's gone_?"

Hands hovering motionless in the air above her keyboard, Patterson stared up at them in shock, looking like she'd just taken a vicious punch to the gut from someone she'd never expected would ever hurt her.

Which was pretty much how exactly Weller himself had felt when he'd heard those same words just minutes ago, his world once more turning completely upside down, yanking his feet from under him just as he'd thought he was regaining his balance. When Borden had approached him down the deserted side corridor— the psychiatrist somehow always knowing exactly where to find him even when he least wanted to be found— he'd still been trying to recover from the last in the line of emotional beatings, a counseling session literally about the last thing on his mind after what he'd just endured in that interview room.

He'd already lifted a hand to wave him off, mind already preparing the words to respectfully but firmly decline his services, when he'd seen the look on the other man's face, seen the telling hint of fear behind his normally steady gaze— and instantly the heat of his anger had died out, morphing into an icy feeling of sheer dread that had gripped his heart and refused to let go.

After his father, after Taylor, after _Jane_ , he'd thought that he was through the worst of it, thought that surely the world had punished him enough. But he'd been wrong.

Instead, the blows just kept on coming.

"She was removed to another facility immediately following the interview," Borden offered in response to Patterson's question, seemingly aware of Weller's preoccupation.

"What other facility?!"

"That's what we're asking _you_ , Patterson," Weller growled, breaking free of his thoughts, barely restraining his frustration as he stepped closer, at last leaving the spot by the doorway where he'd hung back, arms crossed, as Borden had passed on his news.

"Well shouldn't you know?" she asked, her voice rising half an octave in alarm, the words almost bordering on a demand, eliciting raised eyebrows from the still-silent Zapata and Reade. "Like, as the Assistant Director?"

"Patterson," he warned, feeling the headache that had plagued him for the last week steadily intensifying, a fierce throbbing at the base of his skull. He couldn't take this right now, could barely even manage to keep functioning, his entire being running on spiked coffee and stubbornness since the moment the world had gone to hell.

Thankfully for his sanity and the others' understanding, though, Borden chose that moment to step in once more, his tone conciliatory. "I think what Assistant Director Weller is trying to say is that this transfer was undertaken without his being informed."

Patterson blinked at that, then blew out a sharp breath, her anxiety shifting rapidly into determination.

"Right, and no one takes one of ours and gets away with it," she said fiercely, her fingers already flying over the keyboard. "Don't worry, Boss, I'm on it. Jane's as good as found."

"That's not what this is about," he corrected evenly, his eyes hard as he looked from Patterson to the others, ensuring they understood. "This is about a detainee under my jurisdiction being removed without my knowledge or approval. I don't like it and I don't trust it."

"So you're saying the fact that this detainee happens to be Jane means nothing to you," Reade said incredulously from his spot by the desk, speaking up for the first time since Weller and Borden had gathered together this hasty meeting.

Weller crossed his arms over his chest, meeting Reade's gaze squarely, his voice cold. "As I said."

"And her confession did nothing to change how you feel?" Reade challenged, "Given all that we've already learned about Orion?"

Weller clenched his jaw for a moment, refusing to let Reade see just how close his words had struck, his voice edged with bitterness at both Jane and at his own weakness.

"Pretty hard to take someone at their word when they've been lying to all of us for months."

"Oh come on, Weller," Zapata drawled, tag-teaming him with Reade. "We've all seen Jane's poker face, and that was not it. That was an open book. And even _you_ would have to see that everything she did was under coercion."

"Look, none of that is important right now," he said firmly, closing the topic. "Finding out where she's been taken, and by who, comes first."

Reade shook his head, letting out a small sigh, but seemed to let his pro-Jane campaign rest for the moment. "All right, so what did the director say about it?"

Weller grunted. "What do you think? Classified. Told me to leave it alone."

Patterson piped up at that, her eyes never straying from her screen as she continued to type feverishly. "Oh, so you came down here and roped us all in to disobeying direct orders from one of the highest-ranking members of the FBI in order to find someone you claim not to care about? Interesting."

" _Patterson_."

"Just wanted to make sure I had it straight," she tossed back, sounding almost cheerful. "But anyway, you know how much I love breaking rules. I'll know her location in a matter of minutes."

Arms crossed, Zapata looked between him and Patterson for a long moment, her expression contemplative. "And when we find her? What then?"

"We'll decide that when we have more answers," Weller countered, as if he hadn't been asking himself that very same question— and determinedly fighting against his instinctive answer— since the moment Borden had found him in that corridor.

"Actually, looks like we'll have to decide now," Patterson remarked triumphantly, eyes bright with victory. "I know where Jane is."

"Where?" he asked immediately, jaw clenching as he fought the urge to lunge forward and yank the screen around, as if seeing the dot on a map could somehow magically ease the crushing weight on his chest, could allow him to breathe freely again.

Except he already knew it wouldn't be enough.

"It's a downtown address," she said slowly, the words drawn out as she stared at the screen in concentration, fingers moving swiftly over the keys. And then her expression shifted, eyes widening. "I— oh. This is not good."

"What?" he demanded roughly, then grimaced, softening his tone slightly. "What is it, Patterson?"

"The address was flagged by one of my databases," she told him, her eyes meeting his, her gaze suddenly sharp with worry. "Weller, it's a CIA holding facility."

The words hit him like yet another punch to the gut, paralyzing him, stealing his breath. The CIA had wanted Jane from the start, had hunted her like an animal, had even been on the verge of capturing her and sparking an inter-agency war before Mayfair had put a stop to it.

But Jane was no longer under the protection of the FBI, and now that she had admitted to being complicit in Carter's death— now that she had painted a target on her own back and practically _handed_ them the gun— the CIA had claimed her at last, and there was no way in hell they were ever letting her go.

_Shit_.

"Wait, you have a database of CIA sites?" Zapata asked incredulously, peering over Patterson's shoulder as she resumed typing.

Patterson shrugged distractedly. "It's a hobby."

"An incredibly illegal one," Reade said, eyebrows high.

Zapata snorted at that, looking back at him. "You do remember what we're doing right now, right?"

"Enough," Weller said, his voice stern as he forced all of them— including himself— to focus. "We have bigger problems. Patterson, what can you find out about this CIA site?"

"Hold on, I'm already accessing their specs in the database. It'll take a minute."

"So, what?" Reade asked, frowning slightly in thought as he considered the different angles. "The CIA has claimed Jane back now that the truth about Carter is out? Or maybe they just want to use what she knows about Orion?"

"Yeah, that, or silence her for it," Zapata muttered grimly, eyes turning hard. She had no more love for the CIA than Weller himself did. "Either way, there is no scenario where being in the CIA's hands ends well for Jane. Once they've gotten all they want out of her, she'll be put away somewhere dark and quiet where no one will ever see her again."

At her words, Borden spoke up at last, having been observing silently throughout their exchange.

"Actually, Jane said much the same thing herself."

Turning to him, Weller frowned. "Excuse me?"

"After all of you had departed the interrogation room, Jane expressed some certainty that she was going to be taken to a place much like the one you just described, Agent Zapata. She appeared quite resigned to it," he stated evenly, then turned to lock his gaze meaningfully with Weller's as he continued. "In fact, the only distress she demonstrated as they removed her was at the thought of all of you. She repeatedly— and rather vehemently— sought my assurances that I would watch out for each of you in her absence. Particularly you, Assistant Director Weller."

Feeling the intended impact of the words, Weller sucked in a ragged breath, his jaw clenching almost painfully as he fought back against the storm of emotions rising within him, refusing to give in and let them take him over.

But Borden wasn't done.

"If you were to wish for my opinion regarding the sincerity of Jane's testimony and her character as a whole, I would have no hesitation in asserting that her confession was both truthful and genuinely remorseful," he avouched, his all-too-knowing eyes finding each of them in turn. "My many observations of Jane's character have demonstrated that she is, above all, driven by the need to protect those she cares about. Who, with the addition of Ms Sarah Weller and her son Sawyer, are the very people in this room, the very people whom she used her sole bargaining chip to be able to see face to face one final time before giving herself up to whatever fate she knew awaited her."

As he finished speaking, Patterson looked up sharply from her screen, her wide eyes latching onto Weller's.

"We have to get her back."

Weller shook his head. "Patterson, we can't just—"

"No, Weller, we _have_ to get her back," she insisted, turning her screen so he could see the details listed there. "This place isn't _just_ a holding facility. This is the worst of the worst, the kind of place that operates completely under the radar and completely without rules. They'll _torture_ her, Weller. Both physically and psychologically. And when they're done, they'll toss whatever's left into a cell so small and dark it'd be cruel to keep a rat in it, let alone a person."

Her lip trembled. "If we let them keep her, she'll _die_ in there. Alone, tortured, and thinking we didn't care. Thinking we _wanted_ her to suffer."

For split second, Weller lost himself. He lost the floor he was standing on, lost the team around him, lost all but the roaring in his ears, the searing pain that buried itself like a knife into his chest. But only for a second. Then, screwing his eyes tightly shut, he drew an unsteady breath and forcibly pulled himself back, fighting off the darkness just as he'd learned to do twenty-five years ago, the last time someone had been stolen from him.

But this time was different. This time, he had the chance to steal them back.

Opening his eyes, he looked to Reade, who raised his brows expectantly, then to Zapata, who nodded slightly.

All he had to do was give the word, and they would be with him. But could he really ask this of them? Ask them to risk not only their jobs, but their freedom, their lives?

He hated himself then, hated every beat of his traitorous heart, because he knew he could.

For Jane, he could.

Shit.

"You know, as much as I hate what happened to Mayfair, I can't ignore that Jane was a victim too," Reade spoke up after another moment of conflicted silence, surprising the others as much as Weller. "If it was any of us in there, she wouldn't hesitate to come bust us out."

Seeing Zapata and Patterson nod in instant agreement, Weller rubbed a hand across his face, his headache seeming to have spread throughout every inch of his body.

"If we do this, what then?" he asked abruptly, determined to make the obstacles clear to everyone, to make sure they understood what they were up against. "Even if we pull it off, and manage to get in and out of a secure government facility without being nabbed, we would have a fugitive on our hands. It's not like we could bring her back here. How the hell would we hide someone who was being hunted by both the FBI and the CIA?"

"I think I know a way we could," Zapata murmured thoughtfully, and they each turned to look at her with varying levels of surprise, awaiting her explanation.

"Patterson, can you bring up that Daylight folder?" she asked, brow creasing as she concentrated, seemingly searching her memory. "There was a document in there on contingency plans, right? Cash drops, fake documentation, safehouses…"

"Oh my god, yes, you're right!" Patterson exclaimed, already typing furiously. "There were at least four New York safehouses listed in that document, and if what I've read of the Daylight file is correct, no one should know about them except Mayfair, Carter, and Sofia Varma, all of whom are now dead. Any of these places would be completely off the grid."

It was then that he felt it; felt the small spark of hope finally flicker to life inside his chest, felt the energy begin to grow and spread throughout his body, burning away the despair and bringing him back to life, inch by inch. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped forward, his voice clear and purposeful.

"Patterson, give Reade and Zapata the addresses and any info you have on each place," he ordered, looking between the three of them. "You two will check them out, discreetly, and find our best option while making sure it's clear. And Patterson, once you're done with that, I want you to get me all the specs for that CIA holding site."

Without waiting for an answer— he already knew they were with him— he turned away from them, fixing his gaze on the quiet psychiatrist.

"Borden, it's probably time for you to go. I don't want you being dragged any deeper into this."

Borden's chin lifted ever so slightly, his eyes resolute. "Jane was also under my care, Assistant Director. And even more so, she is my friend. I will help you in any way I am able."

Unsurprised but still relieved, Weller gave an approving nod. "Good. Because I have a feeling we might be needing you."

Then, turning back to the team, he raised his brows. "Everyone clear?"

There was a chorus of agreement, then Patterson tilted her head, shooting him a look. "What are _you_ gonna do?"

His lips quirked, the closest he'd gotten to a smile in a week. "I'm going to reach out to an old friend."

All three of them looked at him curiously, Zapata soon voicing the question they were all thinking.

"What do you mean?"

Weller raised his brows, grimly triumphant. "Who better to break someone out of prison and help them disappear than someone who's done it before?"

Reade closed his eyes in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I can and I am," he answered mildly, letting them see he meant it. "We need to find Rich Dotcom."

"But we've already been searching for him for _weeks_ ," Reade protested, looking at him like he'd lost his mind. "What makes you think we'd suddenly be able to find him now?"

"He'll come to us. He'll come for Jane," Weller responded, his voice certain. "Patterson, do you think you could get a message somewhere he would see it?"

Patterson nodded slowly, still absorbing his revelation. "I can't make any promises, but yeah, I think I know of a few places."

"Good. Get the safehouse info first. I'm going to write down the message I want you to post. If Rich sees it, he'll know it's me, and he'll know about Jane. Once he's managed to hack in and confirm our story— which he will— he'll reach out. I guarantee it."

Zapata looked skeptical. "And risk his own freedom and safety?"

"He will for Jane," Weller insisted. Rich was about as self-centered as they came, but he'd made no secret of his soft spot for Jane. Plus, the lure of humiliating another government agency would simply be too good for him to resist; Weller was certain of it.

"He'll come for her," he repeated confidently, "And he'll come for the _game_."

There was silence for a moment, and then Patterson drew a breath, giving a sharp nod. "Okay then. So that's it. We're really doing this."

At her words, Weller looked slowly around the room, surveying his team. Alone, they were all flawed, damaged, each bearing the scars of their pasts— but together they were strong. Together, they were an unbeatable unit. A _family_.

A family that had already lost one member, the wound Mayfair had left still cutting deep.

He wouldn't let them lose another.

"This is the last chance for anyone to back out," he said finally, looking at each of them in turn, ensuring they understood the seriousness of the moment. "There will be no judgement, no consequences for stepping down now, whereas continuing with this plan could come with a high price. So if you need to go, go."

There was a beat of silence, a drawn out moment as they balanced on the precipice, and then—

"Just so you know, when we go check out the safehouses, I am totally driving," Reade spoke up, turning to Zapata with a mischievous grin.

"Nice try," Zapata drawled. "You get shotgun. I'm driving _and_ I'm choosing the music. Patterson, give us all you got."

Patterson beamed at her. "On it."

Borden stepped forward. "I have an appointment shortly, but I believe I will use my remaining free minutes to begin brainstorming our... _cover stories_ , for the lack of a better term. Everyone taking part in this plan will need to have memorised every detail of their alibi, as there is little doubt that we will be among the first to be questioned the moment Jane's escape is known."

Meeting Weller's eyes squarely, he gave a small, graceful nod. "Now, I must take my leave. Keep me in the loop, Assistant Director, and please do not hesitate to contact me if you have any further tasks you wish me to undertake."

"Thank you, Borden," Weller told him quietly, the words not only for his future role in the plan, but for finding him in that corridor; for leading them here, to this moment. And from the look in the other man's eyes, he could tell that he understood.

"You are the second person to have expressed such gratitude to me within the past hour," he responded after a moment, his words equally soft. "I only hope I prove worthy of it."

Then, with a final parting nod to the rest of the team, he turned and exited the lab, leaving the four agents to their mission.

Turning back to the others, Weller took a deep breath, then spoke the words that would seal all of their fates.

"All right, everyone. Let's go get Jane back."


	3. Penance

It couldn't have been more than two days, and they'd already broken her.

She'd thought she'd been handling it— handling the alternating sessions of electrocution-laced interrogation and the dark, silent stints in her cramped cell, her new home more claustrophobic than the bag she'd been born in. The first time they'd tossed her inside— literally _tossed_ , her shoulder and hip colliding with the opposite wall with enough force that she'd felt her bones creak— she'd immediately occupied herself with meticulously mapping out every inch of the cell by touch, her eyes useless in the pitch black and her mind strongly in need of distraction. Even without her sight, though, it was soon obvious that other than the fist-sized concrete hole built into a recessed niche in the wall— its smell making its purpose clear— the space was completely bare, a five-foot cube of smooth, cold concrete.

Carter's promise come to life.

For uncertain stretches of time she would sit there, hunched in one of the corners, both fearing and hoping for the moment when they would drag her back out and submit her to their questions and their electric shocks and their fists, because those were the only moments she saw anything but black, heard anything but her own thoughts, the only moments they would allow her any water— just sips in between shocks, but enough to ease the ever-present burn of thirst, creating a strange paradox of pain and relief. She'd stopped throwing up after the shocks a few sessions ago, though, at least; after all, her last meal had been back at the NYO, and any trace of it was now long since gone.

Much like any trace of her, any evidence she'd ever existed at all.

She'd known that she couldn't survive like this for long. Known that even more than the physical torture— considering her body had apparently been trained since childhood to take the worst that human beings could inflict on one another— the mental torture would eventually destroy her, the slow stripping away of the person she'd become, all the friendship and belonging and _love_ that she had found gradually fading away into nothing but more blurry memories from a past life. Without them, without all the things that had made her _Jane_ , she'd known that her already-fractured existence would simply shatter, the pieces too tiny and damaged to ever be put back together again, ensuring her third life would be her last.

She just hadn't expected to break so soon.

And yet she must have, must have started cracking apart already, because right now she was almost convinced that she had just heard a very distinctive voice on the other side of her cell's thick steel door.

Rich Dotcom's voice.

Even as her mind told her she was imagining it— after all, she'd already imagined hearing Weller's and the team's voices so many times she'd lost count— her straining ears heard the familiar electronic tones of the passcode being entered into the keypad, her body instinctively cowering further into the far corner of the tiny cell, out of reach of the steel-toed boots that would take any excuse to plant themselves into her stomach and sides.

Instead of hulking black shapes staring down at her from a dark corridor, however, the door opened to reveal near-blinding light, her weakened eyes instantly watering at the glare, her hands coming up to shield herself from both the light and the two figures silhouetted in the doorway.

"Okay," the voice said suddenly, its normally jovial tones now carrying an undercurrent of true anger. "Stubbles, now I _really_ wish you'd let me bring the real guns. These guys just went right to the top of my shit list. Or should I say the bottom?"

"Rich?" Jane croaked, her vocal cords now far more accustomed to screams than speech. Then, shifting her blurry gaze to the taller masked man, she drew in a painful breath. " _Wel_ —"

"Quiet," the man commanded softly, an electronic modulator warping his true voice, his eyes scanning the corridor, his body tense. "Rich, get her up."

It was him.

They'd made him taller somehow, his muscular build obscured by a non-standard bulletproof vest, a ski mask covering all but his eyes and mouth— but no amount of disguise could stop her from knowing him.

Even after everything, Weller had come for her.

Her throat closed over, her body wracked by tiny, dry sobs, too drained to even produce tears.

"Oh Janie, my precious coloring book," Rich sighed, pulling up his mask and crouching before her. "Did they damage your beautiful pages? Don't you worry, your old buddy Rich already has lots of extra creative ideas to make them pay. But for now, it's time to go. Can't have the guest of honor late for her own party."

When he reached for her, she attempted to control her flinch— but by the grim look on his normally laughing face, she knew she hadn't succeeded— then drew a deep breath, letting him help her to her feet. Looking to Weller— _Weller_ , who was really _here_ , risking his job and his freedom to rescue her— she noticed that the piercing blue of his eyes was now a muddy brown, a hint of a tattoo peeking out from where the mask ended at his neck, a blocky class ring clicking against the handgrip of his tranq rifle. One of New York's most renowned and respected FBI agents, he now appeared every inch the petty thug, and instantly she felt a renewed rush of gratitude towards Rich, overwhelmingly thankful that the trademark theatrics that had once thwarted them were now serving to protect Weller.

"Rich, you got her? Come on, clock's ticking," Weller's modified voice growled from the corridor, and she heard Rich sigh dramatically in her ear.

"I guess the proper lover's reunion comes later, right? Fine. I better still get front row seats, though," he grumbled, then brightened comically as he wrapped an arm snugly around her waist. "For now though, Jane, you can go ahead and lean on me all you want. I promise not to get _too_ handsy."

Seeing the dark look that Weller shot him, Rich held up his free hand in mock surrender. "Ooh, simmer down, Munchkin. It was just a little joke. Sheesh, maybe I _am_ glad we didn't bring the real guns after all."

"Let's go. Quick and quiet," Weller said firmly, then set off down the corridor, tranq rifle up and ready as he swept the path ahead, never breaking stride as he stepped over the unconscious bodies of her guards.

"But… all the security," she murmured dazedly, staring at the unconscious bodies that littered the corridors they passed. "How?"

"Oh please, my princess, this is _me_ we're talking about here," Rich scoffed, "You know better than anyone that grand escapes are _totes_ my thing. Well, that, and sexually satisfying multiple partners at a time— which, incidentally, I would be happy to demonstrate for you and Stubbles whenever and wherever you like. But that's beside the point. The real point is, you know the movie Ocean's Eleven?"

When Jane shook her head, he glanced at her, looking almost affronted.

"Seriously? That's definitely gotta break some kind of unspoken life-rule or something. But regardless, my plan is _way_ better than anything that bunch of prettyboys came up with. Though they really _were_ pretty. Especially Brad. But anyway, right now all the cameras in this block are out, and a few friends of mine are causing a very interesting distraction elsewhere. I've really been working on my bag of tricks since our last little fling, you know. In fact, there are a few tricks I'd love to show you sometime—"

"I said quick and _quiet_ ," Weller growled from ahead, glancing back at them before guiding them around a corner and into a new corridor.

"Sorry to tweak your tail, Grumpy Cat, but with me you can only choose one. Just like you with Special Agent Cop McCopface and our darling Jane here. Though let's be real, it's pretty clear what choice you made in _that_ particular equation."

Carefully scoping out a stairwell ahead of them, Weller made no reply, simply directed them to follow him up, then had them pause after a single flight to check outside the door.

"This is crazy exciting, isn't it?" Rich stage-whispered in her ear, "The Golden Trio back together again. The Awesome Even-If-Not-Yet-Sexual Threesome. Rich and The Feds. The—"

Pulling back from the door, Weller sharply lifted a hand, then gestured to the right. "Straight down to the end of the corridor, but don't round the corner. Move."

Rich huffed, but did as directed, continuing to support her as she limped beside him down the corridor, her eyes roving constantly as she waited for the near-inevitable moment when everything would crash down around them, when the flood of armed operatives would pour from all directions to drag all three of them back down to the cells, condemning Rich and Weller to the fate that should have been hers alone.

A moment later, Rich interrupted her grim thoughts yet again— he'd been right about silence not really being a concept he could grasp— sounding almost perplexed as he looked her up and down. "You know, Jane, while I said I wouldn't cop a feel, my fingers can't help but notice and be somewhat displeased about how many ribs they're coming into contact with through this lovely designer jumpsuit. What kind of D-grade crap did they feed you here?"

Jane gave a tiny shrug, her words impassive. "They didn't."

Both Weller and Rich faltered at that, exchanging a dark look before hurrying on down the corridor, Rich clearly working to sound cheerful beside her.

"Well then I will view it as my personal mission to get some meat back on those lovely bones. I know this great little Turkish place not far from Canal street, and trust me, Jane, you've never tasted anything so orgasmic in your entire life. Plus, you walk in there on _my_ arm, and they'll treat you like the queen you are, I promise you. I mean come on, it's the perfect deal; you, me, a little Turkish, an inadvisable amount of drinks, a bit of fun—"

"We get out of this alive, it's a date," she told him distractedly, mostly in the hope that it would quieten him, her eyes— like Weller's— remaining fixed up ahead, her senses hyperalert.

"You hear that, Stubbles? That is how it's _done_ , my friend. But don't worry, I wouldn't let you miss out on the fun. You can come too."

Weller nodded slightly. "Copy that."

Pressing his free hand over his heart, Rich gaped. "Do mine ears deceive me, or did Stubbles just agree to a date? Jane, tell me you heard—"

"Houston says we're here," Weller interrupted, his finger still pressed to the bud in his ear.

"Oh. Well then, here comes the fun part," Rich said brightly, reaching into a fanny pack at his waist— _a fanny pack_ — and pulling out chunks of what was undeniably plastic explosive.

"Okay Jane, tragically for both of us I'm going to have to let you go now," he said, then looked up at her, his teasing question masking true concern. "Will you be able to survive without me for a few moments?"

"Yeah, go," Jane said with a nod, extricating herself from his grip while he drew out more of the explosive, his eyes going soft as he lovingly fondled the deadly material. When he moved over to the opposite wall and began placing the explosive on it in a wide circle, she felt Weller shift a little closer, as if readying himself to catch her should her legs give out.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, seeing his terse answering nod out of the corner of her eye as he continued to scan their surroundings. There was so much more she wanted to say, things she hadn't been able to say back in the interview room with so many listening ears— but she didn't know how to find the right words, or to make him believe them. So she said nothing, and instead settled for inching just a fraction closer, taking comfort from his nearness. She knew he noticed— in the field, Weller noticed _everything_ — but he didn't move away, causing the tiny, tentative spark of hope to glow just a little brighter in her chest.

A moment later, her attention was once again drawn away from Weller as Rich came bounding back to her side, sheer delight on his scruffy face.

"Okay, lovelies," he chirped, "Time to get to cover. Grumpy, do you mind helping Snow White around the corner? I mean totally I'd love to, but right now I've kind of got my hands full with not, you know, blowing us all up."

Without a word, Weller stepped closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, her breath catching at their sudden proximity, at the heat of his body against her side. Seemingly unaffected, he supported her as they rounded the nearest corner, and she even through her distraction she could have sworn she faintly heard Rich humming the song 'Can You Feel The Love Tonight' from Sawyer's Lion King movie as he trailed along behind them.

Once they were all safely behind the corner, Rich looked over at them, his grin almost wild.

"All right, kids, get ready for a little noise. It's time to blow this joint."

Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he pressed down hard on the detonator button, causing a resounding boom to shake the floor beneath their feet— and instantly Jane found herself pinned firmly between the wall and Weller's body, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her and the other raised to shield her head as chunks of plaster rained down on them.

"Wow. Raise your hand if you're a little turned on right now," Rich piped up a moment later, enthusiastically raising his hand as the dust settled around them. "Actually you know what, I'm gonna go ahead and raise both my hands on behalf of all of us, since you two are clearly a little, ah, _preoccupied_ at the moment. Don't worry, I got your backs."

She was still frozen— still working on remembering how to breathe— when Weller abruptly released her and pushed away from the wall, moving back until there was several feet of space between them.

"Time to go," his modulated voice rasped, and for a moment she almost thought she detected just a hint of unsteadiness beneath his words. "You first, Rich, then help Jane down. I'll follow last."

"Aw, so I don't get to jump down into your arms, bridal-style?" Rich whined, pouting. "Bummer. Ah well, the show must go on."

Holding out an arm, he raised his brows at her. "Shall we, Jane?"

For a moment she hesitated, glancing back at Weller, a heavy feeling forming in her gut. Forcing herself to shake it off, she took the proffered arm, then picked her way through the rubble with Rich to the large, gaping hole in the wall, sucking in a breath as she saw the flare-illuminated space revealed on the other side.

"Old subway tunnel," Rich explained, his chest puffing out proudly. "Genius, I know. I'd totally love to take credit for it, but that part of the plan was all Houston. After mine, hers is seriously the sexiest brain I've ever encountered. I keep telling her we'd make such beautiful brain-babies, but for some strange reason she doesn't seem to be half as excited about the idea as I am."

Giving his head a small, bemused shake, he turned toward her and gently drew his arm from hers, patting her forearm affectionately before squaring his shoulders and facing the void. "Right then, Jane, I hope you won't mind me ignoring the 'Ladies first' rule here— not that I subscribe to outdated patriarchal ideals of inherent gender roles and differentiations anyway, of course. But really, that's a topic for another time. Excuse me."

With that, he kicked aside some of the debris at the base of the wall, then jumped down into the dimness of the tunnel, landing with a faint _oof_ several feet below. Standing at the edge, she peered down at him, seeing him hold his hands up to her.

"Come now, my gazelle, time's a wasting," he called up to her, and she felt herself waver, the heaviness in her gut amplifying as she shot one last look back at Weller, watching him give a brief nod before turning away to cover their escape. Clenching her jaw, she turned and lowered herself over the edge, letting herself drop when she felt Rich's outstretched arms brush her legs. Grasping her with surprising strength, he eased her fall, setting her steadily on the tracks beside him.

"Thanks," she muttered, then turned, eyes already locked on the opening above their heads, watching tensely for Weller. She heard Rich speak behind her, but didn't actually register a single word; her instincts were clamouring, her body wound tight and sharp as razorwire, making her flinch violently when Rich's hand gently grasped her arm.

"Hello? Earth to Jane, I asked you—" he began, but his words were abruptly cut short by a sudden shout from above, followed immediately by another, the unfamiliar voices raised in surprise and anger.

And then a split second later came a new sound, one that froze her insides with dread, stopping her heart.

_Gunfire._


	4. Parole

" _Weller!_ "

Heart pounding, Jane tried to lunge forward, but Rich tightened his grip around her arm, firmly pulling her back.

"Not so fast, Juliet," he said grimly, all trace of humor gone from his voice. "Your star-crossed lover was very clear about the rules. No matter what happens, I get you out. No hesitation, no looking back."

Jane tugged against his hold, her eyes locked on the gap above, terror making her voice shake. "No, I have to help him—"

"Says the woman who can barely walk on her own, let alone fight a bunch of armed CIA agents," he reminded her harshly, then softened, genuine empathy bleeding through. "Jane, I'm sorry, I really am, but if they're up there then we have to go _now_ , Weller or no Weller."

Gripping her a little more firmly, he began to shift back— trying to pull her away from the wall, away from _Weller_ — and instantly she felt something fracture within her, fury roaring through her like a wildfire beneath her skin.

" _I won't leave him_ ," she snarled fiercely, twisting her arm roughly out of his grip and slamming a palm into his chest, forcefully sending him back a few steps while she whirled back to face the opening in the wall, her eyes desperately searching out handholds to get her back up to the corridor, back up to the man whose side she never should have left. Her fingers had already closed around the first— a thin, rusted pipe that bit into her skin, her mind oblivious to the pain as her body readied itself to pull her up to the next handhold— when the gunfire above abruptly died out, the sudden heavy silence piercing straight through her heart, stealing her breath.

For a split second she was frozen, her mind and body paralyzed with horror; before a sharp surge of adrenaline hit her hard, exploding through her like one of the electric shocks from her interrogations, her head instantly jerking up, her eyes panicked, disbelieving—

And then suddenly there was movement in the corridor above, and the next moment a barely-panting Weller had appeared in the gap, jumping down to land beside her in a swift, controlled movement.

Immediately reaching for him, Jane frantically looked him over in the faint light. "Are you okay? Are you hit?"

"I'm fine," he answered steadily, easing out of her grip and stepping away. "There were only two. Found some cover and took them down with the tranq's."

As he moved beyond her reach, Jane forced her trembling hands to drop to her sides, carefully focusing on her breathing just like Borden had taught her, fighting down the panic that threatened to swallow her whole. She wouldn't— c _ouldn't_ — let herself fall apart, not now. Not when Weller was still at risk.

"Oh, you think _that_ was bad? You should have seen the abuse _I_ just endured. I think my chest is bruised," Rich whined, rubbing his breastbone dramatically— though the wink he threw her before he went on told her he understood, that he was still on her side. "But then, it's always the ones we love that hurt us the most, right? I mean of course you know that, look who I'm talking to. Anyhow, Stubbles, don't you have an appointment right about now?"

"Yeah, let's get moving," Weller agreed, his eyes flicking over her for the briefest of seconds before he turned and led them over to a large tarp-covered shape nearby, tugging it free to reveal two sleek off-road motorbikes, one facing in either direction along the dim tunnel.

"See this, Janie? _This_ part was _my_ idea. Speaking of which," Rich said cheerfully, then moved right into Weller's personal space, tilting his head close to his ear. "Houston, we have zero problems. Mission success, I repeat, mission succ—"

"Back up," Weller warned, lifting a hand between them and firmly forcing Rich back a step, making him pout. "Jane, go with Rich. He'll direct you to the handover point."

Her heart squeezed painfully as she registered his meaning, anxiety instantly crawling its way back up her throat. "Where are you going?"

Slinging the rifle over his back, Weller gave a slight shrug, glancing down the tunnel to their left. "Back to work."

With that, he swung himself onto the nearer of the two bikes, then looked at Rich.

"Stick to the plan. Anything goes wrong, I _will_ find you."

"Yes, dear," Rich answered with a long-suffering sigh, then waggled his fingers in farewell.

Completely ignoring Rich's reply, Weller glanced at her, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment— but he said nothing, and a second later he had kicked the bike into gear and was disappearing into the gloom, the echo of the bike's engine fading swiftly behind him.

"Well, so ends another whirlwind love affair with my favourite beefcake," Rich sighed wistfully, then brightened. "But you and I still have one last dance, Jane, so hop on. You're driving."

Tearing her eyes from the spot she'd last seen Weller, Jane blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Oh please, like _you_ would be willing to give up control and let me operate a potentially deadly vehicle over uncertain terrain. Nope, not likely. Plus, this way I get to hold onto you nice and tight."

When she simply stared at him, he gestured toward the bike in invitation. "Look, all you have to do is head in the opposite direction to Weller and not crash. You'll know when we get where we're going. And somehow I have a feeling you see better in the dark than I do."

Glancing one last time at the darkness that had swallowed Weller, Jane nodded, then climbed onto the bike, rolling her eyes as Rich settled in close behind her, his arms wrapping securely around her waist.

"Incidentally, have you ever ridden one of these before?"

"Let's find out," Jane answered, then kicked the bike into gear, hearing Rich's exultant whoop in her ear as they took off, kicking up stones and dust. Handling the bike like she'd been born to it, she kept the pace moderate, fast enough to gain some distance from the CIA building, but slow enough to avoid hazards, her sharp eyes— honed in the cell that was steadily falling further behind them— scanning the path ahead for anything that might unbalance them.

After several minutes of nothing but dark, echoing tunnel, she became aware of light ahead, easing back on the throttle as it grew steadily brighter.

"Don't fret, Furiosa," Rich spoke up in her ear, nearly shouting above the roar of the engine. "This is our welcoming committee."

With a tiny nod, she picked up speed once more, her body tense as they neared the light. As her eyes adjusted, she could see three large unmasked men silently watching them approach from an old subway platform that was covered in trash and graffiti, each of them dressed much as Weller had been— except with very real bullets in their multiple firearms.

And yet, despite her apprehension, it was not the men that truly drew her attention.

Because, standing just a few yards from the small group— while somehow managing to seem completely separate from them, in an entirely different world— was a beautiful woman wearing large sunglasses and a scarf draped over her dark hair, her posture relaxed as she casually reapplied a fresh coat of bright red lipstick.

Confused, Jane blinked hard, then returned her focus to the tracks before them as their bike emerged fully into the light. When she finally brought it to a careful stop several yards away from the platform, Rich let out a light, girlish laugh, then leaned in even closer to give her an extra little hug-like squeeze.

"Fabulous driving, darling. Only thought I was going to die like three times and didn't even throw up once. Gotta be a record."

Clambering off the bike, he gave himself a little shake, then looked up at the waiting men.

"Huey, Dewey, take the bike up to the van, please. Louie, have you heard from our B team yet?"

"Yes, sir," one of the men replied as the other two jumped down from the platform. "Your boyfriend's bike and disguise are in the other van, and he's been dropped off at the agreed location."

" _Boyfriend?_ " Jane asked incredulously, looking at Rich with brows raised as they moved away from the bike, his hand hovering supportively at her elbow.

"Well, I had to give _some_ kind of believable excuse as to why I would go to all this trouble for someone," he countered devilishly, and Jane snorted. "Oh, speaking of which— Louie, toss the burner phone to my girlfriend please."

Glancing up at the man remaining on the platform, Jane saw him throw something in her direction, and caught it by instinct, frowning down at the small cell she held.

"That's just for you, okay? You need another rescue, you wanna book a romantic date, even a little phone sex—" seeing her face scrunch, he waggled a finger. "Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it. Unless you have. Stubbles _does_ have a very sexy voice. But in any case— phone sex or otherwise— if you need me, you give me a call, okay?"

Pausing, she looked at him, _really_ looked at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, the soft side he so carefully kept hidden. "Thank you, Rich."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm amazing, I know," he answered blithely, flapping a hand at her, feigning indifference to cover his moment of vulnerability. "Oh, and tell Houston that if she tries to trace it, she's definitely gonna have a problem. But anyhow, no time for dallying. Louie, help my dear Jane up onto the platform, please."

Obediently, the giant of a man approached the edge and reached down, gripping her and lifting her easily onto the platform beside him. While he did the same for Rich, she looked curiously at the woman who awaited them, then did a swift double take.

"Ta—"

"Hepburn," Zapata corrected, her red lips quirking as she added dryly, "Rich chose the codenames."

Jane shook her head slightly, a tiny smile curving her own lips as she took in her friend's disguise. "I'm not surprised."

With that, things fell silent between them, the weight of all that had happened heavy on both of their minds. Then, pulling off her sunglasses, Zapata simply looked her up and down for a moment— making Jane fight the urge to fidget— before letting out a quiet sigh.

"Come here, Jane," she said finally, holding out her arms, and Jane bit her trembling lip as she walked into them, tentatively returning her friend's tight hug, her voice uncharacteristically gentle as she spoke in her ear. "You've already paid for what you've done, Jane. And you're sure as hell not the only one with demons in your past."

Releasing a shuddering breath, Jane held on a little tighter, then pulled back a moment later as a throat cleared loudly somewhere behind them.

"So, ladies, any chance I could get in on that action? Yes? No? Maybe?"

Seeing the flat looks they gave him, he sighed dramatically. "Fine, be like that. Here I am, having to go back on the run after risking life and limb to help you, and this is the thanks I get. No loving, not even a little smooch. No gratitude, I tell you."

Glancing at Zapata, Jane lifted her brows, the tiniest hint of playfulness glimmering behind her exhausted gaze. Huffing an amused breath, the other woman rolled her eyes before tilting her head slightly towards Rich in a silent 'go ahead' gesture. Their wordless conversation— something that the entire team had near-perfected after months in the field together— took no more than a single moment, and within the next moment Jane had turned to face the still-oblivious Rich, eyes instantly locking with his.

Then, striding purposefully across the few yards of dusty concrete that separated them, she reached out and took his face firmly in her hands, pulling him close before pressing a swift, hard kiss to his lips. It was over in barely more than a second— the brief peck lasting only just long enough for him to truly register what was happening— before she let go of him just as abruptly and stepped back, leaving him stunned and speechless.

And then before he could begin to recover, her hand flashed, slapping across his bearded cheek with just enough force to sting a little, but not nearly enough to actually hurt him— though she was fully aware he would enjoy the latter just as much. Seeming completely dumbstruck, he gaped at her in utter shock, and she arched a brow coolly, her words laced with mild challenge.

"That was for last time."

Eyes wide, Rich slowly raised a hand to his cheek in wonder, staring at her as if she was the universe's most incredible creation.

"Gentlemen," he called to his waiting crew, his eyes bright and a slightly breathless, awed quality to his voice, "It's time to go. Daddy needs some alone time."

Then, backing away, he moved with his men towards the dim exit, only to pause just before it, his eyes still locked on her.

"Don't you go forgetting our date now, Jane. After that little taste I'm _definitely_ going to need a round two."

"Goodbye, Rich," Jane said with a wry smile, shaking her head as he mouthed an exaggerated 'I love you' before disappearing from sight, his men silently flanking him.

"I should tell Weller on you," Zapata teased, coming up to stand beside her, arms crossed casually over her chest.

At her words, Jane's smile instantly faltered, her eyes lowering. "I don't think Weller cares who I kiss anymore."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Zapata answered slyly, cocking her head. "He sure as hell seemed to care when he heard about you and Oscar."

Closing her eyes, Jane drew in a deep breath, pushing back the guilt and shame that the name evoked. _Oscar_. She'd used him, led him on, and then she'd killed him. Even after all that he'd done, he could never have deserved that.

"Except there was no me and Oscar," she reminded quietly, her voice hoarse, wavering. "I mean, I think the previous version of me really did love him, but for me he was just someone who had information I needed, someone who was a threat to the team. Playing on his feelings for that other me was the only weapon I had."

Then, her shoulders slumped and she let out a shuddering breath, finally admitting what she hadn't been able to back in that interview room, one of her deepest truths at last spilling out.

"The only way I—" she began, then swallowed back the lump in her throat, her words dropping to a faltering whisper. "The only way I could get through it was by pretending he was Weller."

"Hey, you don't have to explain it to me, Jane," Zapata said softly, a heaviness to her voice that Jane hadn't heard before. "We do what we have to do to protect the people we love."

Lifting her head, Jane glanced over at her, seeing the understanding in her eyes, the shadow that lingered in their depths; the mark her own demons had left behind.

Then, clearly making an effort to shake off the grim mood, Zapata slipped her sunglasses back on before tipping her head forward slightly and giving Jane a mischievous look over the top of them. "Anyway, come on, Jane. We need to get going, and that means it's makeover time."

Jane blinked, confused by the sudden shift. "It's _what_?"

Her friend made a show of looking her over, her voice wry. "Unless you've forgotten, Jane, you're a little distinctive. We need to tone things down a notch. Here."

Reaching into the large bag she carried, she pulled out a pair of pants, a turtleneck sweater, and some gloves. "Put these on."

Without hesitation, Jane stripped off the thin prisoner jumpsuit and shoes that she'd been given— between the locker room and the tattoo photos, there wasn't anything Zapata hadn't already seen anyway— and reached for the proffered clothes, tugging them on.

"God, Jane, what the hell did they do to you?" Zapata asked sharply, eyeing her bruised body, her pained movements.

"Beatings, electrocution, starvation, nothing I haven't been through before," Jane answered plainly, shrugging it off. "I think they were just trying to wear me down before they started on the real torture."

"Jesus Christ," Zapata muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she reached back into the bag, pulling out a pair of shoes and dropping them at Jane's feet. "I'm so glad we got you out of there."

Slipping the shoes on, Jane hesitated, eyes down. "Why did you?"

"What?"

Shoulders hunched, Jane forced the words out. "Why would you all risk so much, just to save me? After everything I've done?"

Reaching down, Zapata gently drew her upright, her lips pursed as she looked her over with an expression of concentration. Then, drawing Jane's short hair back with a clip, she settled a wig over the top, tugging gently to adjust it.

"This team is a family," she answered finally, her voice as somber as Jane had ever heard it. "And we don't leave family behind. Plus, there's things we know about Orion now that you don't yet. You were as much a victim in this as any of us, and I'm sorry we didn't realise that sooner."

Reeling at the admission, Jane stared at her, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Zapata shook her head. "Not here. We'll brief you once we're back at the safehouse. For now, just know that this shit goes deep, and we're planning to get right to the center of it and bring it crashing down around them. Sound good?"

Letting out a slow breath, Jane felt the tension within her ease just slightly, her lips curving into a tiny, grim smile. "Yeah, it does."

"Good," Zapata answered, her expression predatory. "Then let's go get started."


	5. Rehabilitation

It didn't feel real.

Still half-dazed from everything that had happened in the last half hour, Jane followed closely behind Zapata as they headed for the platform's exit, her eyes locked on her friend's casually-dressed back, afraid to blink in case she would somehow disappear— in case it would _all_ somehow disappear, her eyes opening again to nothing but the cold, empty blackness of her cell, her friends' voices fading back into nothing more than painful echoes of her life before.

In the beginning, a tiny part of her had wondered. Wondered if this wasn't all simply a new form of torture, some kind of chemically-induced hallucination, a cruel, hyper-realistic dream specially designed to crush her already-wounded heart, to shred what was left of her soul.

To destroy her, completely and irreparably.

Now, though, she knew the truth; knew that this was no CIA-crafted illusion, nor even a desperate imagining of her own fractured mind.

She knew it, had known it from the very moment Weller had put his arm around her back in that corridor, her body— as it always did— responding to his touch like fire to gasoline, the flames burning beneath her skin searing away all her fear and doubt.

After all, her mind could lie, but her body could not.

Which meant that this truly was all real; she really was being rescued, her life saved by the very people who had the most reason to want to see her punished, the most right to leave her to suffer the fate she deserved.

Carter may have promised her forever in that hell, but he hadn't counted on the loyalty of her team.

But then again, neither had she.

It was just another of the many mistakes she would never make again.

Eyes still on Zapata, she saw her put a finger to her ear as they passed through the doorway and turned toward the stairs, her words brief but clear. "Houston. Lights."

A couple of seconds later, the platform behind them fell into complete darkness, leaving only the warm sunlight filtering down from the street above, its gentle, unfamiliar glow holding Jane transfixed— until she almost collided with Zapata's back, the agent having abruptly paused mid-step on the stairs above her.

"Wait, that reminds me, one last thing," she said suddenly, turning to the still-recovering Jane and pulling out a pair of sunglasses, holding them out and then giving her an approving look as she slipped them on. "Damn. No one but Weller would stand a chance of recognising you now."

"I didn't recognise _you_ ," Jane admitted sheepishly as they turned and continued up the steps to the street, glancing again at the sunglasses and delicate silk scarf that Zapata still wore.

"Yeah, well, my part in the plan involved looking as not-me as possible while picking you up," she explained, then looked over, her lips twitching. "Right now Reade's on the other side of the city with a stripper friend of Rich's who just _happens_ to look a lot like me— a total coincidence, he says— staking out a building on a bogus job that Weller very publicly sent us on this morning. That building conveniently has a whole bunch of security cameras around it, so as long as Reade keeps fake-me angled the right way, there'll be plenty of available footage showing both Reade and me exactly where we were supposed to be at the time of your escape."

Eyes wide, Jane drew in a surprised breath, amazed at the intricacy of their plan; though she should have expected nothing less from Rich DotCom and four of the FBI's most skilled— and stubbornly determined— special agents. Soon, she would ask to hear the full story, every detail of what had happened in the time following her interview— but for now, she focused only on the next step of the plan, sticking close to Zapata's side as they slipped from the subway's barred entrance and turned onto a quiet side street, both of them automatically adopting a casual strolling pace.

The subway was already several yards behind them— the two of them completely exposed, out in the open— when the sound of shouting from a nearby intersection made Jane flinch, her eyes frantically searching for the threat while her body tensed to run.

"Don't worry, it's just one of Rich's distractions," Zapata assured her, fingers lightly brushing her elbow. "He paid a homeless guy $500 to rant wildly about Satan right near the corner and harass anyone who tried to come down this way. Rich thought it was hilarious, probably would have even stayed there all day to watch if he'd had the chance. Did you know he laughs like a little girl? It's kind of disturbing."

Feeling the surge of fear and adrenaline begin to ebb just slightly, Jane huffed a quiet laugh, then followed Zapata to a nearby car, one of the most common models in the city. "Yeah, I did."

Once they were securely in the car and couldn't be overheard, Jane turned to look at her, unable to contain one particular question any longer. "Back before we met you in the tunnel, Rich said Weller had an appointment. Do you know what he meant?"

"Well, Reade and the stripper are my alibi, and Borden is Weller's," Zapata answered distractedly, eyes roving watchfully as she pulled out into the street. "I mean, we all know that Borden's office is one of the only places in the entire NYO without camera surveillance, so today Weller went in for a 'session', and then immediately got out of the building using the air vents you used during the lockdown, plus a little camera tampering on the other side by Patterson. All he needs to do now is get back in there before someone comes to tell him you've escaped, and it will look like he and Borden were in there together the whole time."

As she listened, Jane felt heat prickle behind her eyes, a wave of emotion swelling to fill her chest, a glowing mixture of relief and gratitude and elation. _Borden_. Borden had kept his promise, looking out for Weller just as she'd begged him to back in that interview room, protecting him even though doing so meant risking both his career and his freedom.

And Weller... maybe his hasty departure _hadn't_ actually been about getting away from her at all, his part in the rescue maybe not simply to spare her life before cutting her from his. Maybe, she might even get to see him again, might still have a chance to show him just how truly sorry she was.

To show him that she would find a way to make it right.

"That's… incredible," Jane murmured eventually, then cleared her throat, speaking past the lump of emotion that was wedged there. "You guys pulled all of this together in just a couple of days?"

"It was a team effort," Zapata answered with a tiny shrug, a hint of a smile in her voice. "Borden especially is more diabolical than I ever gave him credit for. Put him together with Patterson, and magic happens."

Then, her tone grew serious, her eyes glancing over at Jane. "I know Weller was frustrated by how long it took to get it all together, though. The man would deny it to his last stubborn breath, but he was going crazy with worry about what they were doing to you in there. He was the first one Borden went to after they took you away, and I don't think he's stopped moving for a single second since."

Jane dropped her gaze, her hands compulsively clenching and unclenching around the seatbelt, the fragile warmth inside her turning to ice. "I hurt him so badly, Tasha."

"Yeah, you did," Zapata answered bluntly, "But unless absolutely _everything_ I've come to know about you in the last several months is a lie, you never wanted to."

Clenching her jaw, Jane shook her head slightly, her words a rough-edged whisper. "I'd have died first if it would have saved him from that."

Zapata gave a tiny nod, eyes fixed on the traffic ahead. "Yeah, I figured as much."

Swallowing hard, Jane leaned back in her seat and turned to look out the window, needing a moment to breathe, to try to draw herself back together. Now that she was no longer directly in the midst of running for her life— it was all in Zapata's hands now, hands that she trusted almost as much as Weller's— she could feel the tension in her body finally beginning to drain away, the overwhelming exhaustion rising to take its place.

She wasn't aware of her eyes slowly falling shut, but it seemed only a split second later that they were bursting open, her body jerking upright and arms already lifting to defend herself, eyes wild as they searched for the threat.

"Easy, Jane," Zapata said slowly, her voice soothing. "I was just saying we were here."

Jane blinked, still disoriented. "What?"

"You zonked out for about fifteen minutes," Zapata explained, then lifted a brow. "I'm guessing you didn't get much sleep in that place."

Trying to calm her frenzied heart, Jane breathed slowly and deeply, then shook her head. "They kept the interrogations pretty frequent. I don't really know for sure, but I think they only put me in the cell for a couple of hours at a time, and there wasn't really much space in there for sleeping."

"Have I mentioned lately how much I hate the CIA?" Zapata said bitterly, then sighed, softening. "Come on, Jane. Let's get you upstairs."

Climbing from the car, Jane sent around a swift, wary glance, then looked curiously up at the building before them. It wasn't at all like her last safehouse, with its weather-beaten exterior and miserable gray surroundings. Instead, it was beautiful in a gentle, understated way, and it looked… like a _home_.

Squashing the strange, wistful feeling in her chest— homes were for normal people, not dual-lifed impostors like her— Jane glanced over as Zapata rounded the car to join her, the agent's sharp eyes subtly scanning the street around them as she pulled out a set of keys.

When they passed through the elegant front doors, Jane drew in a breath, looking around the stately foyer with wide eyes. "How did you even find this place?"

Zapata's smile was pained. "Let's just say our mentor left us a few things."

Faltering, Jane stared first at her friend, then again at the space around them. "You mean…?"

Zapata nodded, leading the way up the stairs. Then, pausing, she looked back at Jane.

"You know, I think she would have forgiven you too, if she was in that interview room."

Except she _wasn't_ there, had never even had a chance to be, because Jane had betrayed her, had first ruined her life and then taken it. Oscar may have been the one that pulled the trigger, but Mayfair's death was still on her, and she knew that. Just as she knew that whatever forgiveness she received from others, she would never be able to forgive herself.

"Thanks," she murmured anyway, and Zapata nodded again before ascending the rest of the steps and turning down a wide hallway, heading for a single wooden door at the very end.

A door that currently had a white plastic bag sitting in front of it, making Zapata hesitate, holding out a hand. "Wait here."

With her hand on her gun, she moved forward cautiously to inspect the bag, then snorted.

"What is it?" Jane asked, drawing closer. Zapata pulled a note from the top of the bag, then read aloud.

"'Dear Sleeping Beauty, please put some meat on those bones before our date. Daddy likes a little padding. Love,—'" breaking off, Zapata looked up, rolling her eyes. "He literally just signed it with three dollar signs."

Frowning in confusion, Jane tilted her head. "Sleeping Beauty?"

"Yeah, she's a fairytale princess who had to be rescued from a castle. I bet Rich thinks he's the damn prince, too."

"Wait," Jane said, the belated realization abruptly hitting her, " _Rich_ knows where the safehouse is?"

"He's not supposed to, but it's Rich," Zapata answered dryly, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Good thing the CIA will never be able to find him to get it out of him. And damn, that food smells good."

"You can have as much as you want," Jane offered immediately, grasping the bag and following her as she led the way into the apartment.

"Love to, but can't. I have to go back and join Reade. Stay here for a sec while I check the place, all right?"

"Oh. Okay," Jane answered reluctantly, putting the food on the kitchen counter as Zapata disappeared down the short hallway. Then, slowly pulling off the wig, sunglasses, and gloves, she looked around, taking in her new surroundings. The kitchen was modern and elegant, the room opening out into a spacious lounge with tasteful and comfortable furniture. It looked like a place that was truly supposed to be lived in.

She wasn't even sure she knew how to do that.

Pushing the thought aside, she looked down at the food— and then at the sink beside it, drawing in a swift, unsteady breath. Within a matter of moments, she had found a glass in one of the nearby cupboards and then returned to the sink, almost sighing as filled it with cool, fresh water. Leaning against the counter, she held the glass in both hands and sipped slowly, relishing both the soothing moisture and the knowledge that it wasn't— and never again would be— simply a precursor to further torture.

She couldn't remember anything ever tasting so good.

After another moment, Zapata rejoined her in the kitchen, tucking her gun into her waistband. "All clear. Sorry, Jane, but I don't have time to give you the tour, so you'll just have to explore the place yourself. But if you just want to sleep, your room's the one at the very end of the hall— you'll know it when you see it. And I know how much you must hate being locked up by now, but you really can't leave the apartment, okay?"

Jane gave her a small, wry smile. "It's okay. I get it."

"Don't worry. The moment any of us can get away without raising suspicion, we'll be here," Zapata assured her, then looked at her watch. "Hell. I gotta go change."

As Zapata disappeared into the bathroom, Jane pulled out the food, her stomach both craving and rebelling against the delicacies before her. Compromising, she grabbed a fork and nibbled at each dish— Italian, Chinese, Mexican, French, but surprisingly no Turkish— chewing slowly to let her stomach get re-accustomed to the idea of digesting something other than itself. By the time Zapata emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later— looking like the _real_ Zapata again— Jane was actually starting to enjoy the food, the nausea slowly settling.

"What, _tacos_?" Zapata exclaimed, immediately reaching for the food. "You know, I should probably take one for the road."

Smiling at her enthusiasm, Jane gestured at the food, her chest feeling strangely light. "Take as many as you want. It's the least I can do to thank you."

"I mean, if you're gonna insist," Zapata mumbled around a mouthful of taco, scooping up the container of Mexican food. "Better take some for Reade and Misty, too. Though who knows if she even eats tacos. Maybe we're only similar in looks."

Then, with a small smile and a brief squeeze of Jane's hand, she turned to go. "I'll see you tonight, Jane. Go get some rest."

And just like that, she was gone, leaving Jane on her own in the apartment— but no longer alone. Now, she had the whole team on her side, including the man she'd truly believed would never— _could_ never— forgive her. Somehow, within the span of a single dizzying hour, she had gotten back everyone she cared about, and had traded death in a cold concrete box for a life in a beautiful, cozy apartment with a real bed.

At that thought, she pushed herself away from the counter, depositing the food in the fridge and refilling her water before wandering down the hall, peeking through doorways as she went. Behind the first was the gleaming bathroom Zapata had just left, the sight of the shower making her shiver in anticipation, all too ready to wash herself clean of the cell, of the CIA and of every moment of the last two days. Reluctantly backing out— and deliberately avoiding catching sight of her reflection in the mirror as she went— she opened the door opposite to find a comfortable-looking guest room with a double bed decked in deep blues and grays, temptation yet again tugging at her for a moment before she forced herself to continue down the hall, exploring her new safehouse.

The place that— just _maybe_ — she would someday learn how to call home.

Beside the guest room was an airy study, its walls ringed with bookshelves and the center occupied by a large wooden desk, both it and the scattered potted plants receiving perfect natural lighting from the wide, sun-filled windows that took up most of the far wall. Glancing at one small plant that sat upon the desktop, she felt a small flicker of worry that she would be responsible for looking after all of them, unsure whether she could be trusted with the wellbeing of even non-sentient living things— though she had to admit, she kind of liked the thought of her hands helping to encourage life rather than bringing only death.

Maybe, next time she saw Patterson or Zapata, she'd ask them to bring her a gardening book.

Slowly shifting her gaze from the tiny green plant to the other items on the desk, she reflexively moved closer to examine them, curious.

As she realized what she was seeing, she felt her throat constrict, her eyes prickling as she set down her water and slowly reached out, fingers running lightly over the cover of the brand new sketchbook that sat in the center of the desk. Carefully flipping it open, she stroked its thick, parchment-like pages reverently, then glanced over at the collection of pencils and other stationery that was neatly arrayed on the desk beside it.

She couldn't be sure who was responsible for the gesture, but the rush of gratitude she felt in that moment was for every single one of them, for every member of the unconventional family she had found. And even after all the terrible things that the first version of herself had done, she couldn't help but feel thankful towards that past-self for delivering her to them, for giving her this family, this chance to truly have a place to belong.

It was a chance she'd nearly destroyed, but she knew she would do whatever it took to earn it back.

Letting out a slow breath, she gently closed the book, then retrieved her glass of water from the desk and backed slowly away, eyes taking in the room one last time before slipping back through the doorway and closing the door.

Then— after opening one other door to reveal a linen cupboard stocked with plush towels and blankets— she came at last to the master bedroom, slowly pushing open the door and drawing in a shaky breath when it revealed the beautifully furnished room beyond, a luxurious king-sized bed as its centerpiece.

Awed, she stepped slowly into the room, vaguely noting the two open doorways to her right that appeared to lead to the walk-in robe and ensuite, but unable to truly focus on anything but the lure of the incredibly soft-looking bed. As she drifted closer, she noticed something lying on the foot of the bed, her brows drawing together as she examined the large, dark-colored sweatshirt that seemed fairly familiar. Reaching it, she saw a small note sitting atop it, the handwriting unmistakably Zapata's.

_Stole this from Weller's locker. Don't tell him it was me. I'll deny it._

Smiling, Jane scooped up the sweatshirt, then immediately moved to the nightstand and set her glass down on it before swiftly pulling off the turtleneck Zapata had given her and tugging the sweatshirt on instead. For a long moment she simply stood there, hugging it tightly around herself, before opening her eyes and finally crawling into the bed, sighing as she sunk into the deliciously soft mattress, the blankets cocooning her in their warmth.

Then, tucking her nose into the sweatshirt and breathing deeply, she let Weller's familiar scent comfort and soothe her, all the fear and tension slowly draining away.

And, for the first time in her new third life, she felt safe.

When she woke a few hours later, it was to the faint sound of knocking at the front door, her heart instantly pounding hard, her senses on high alert. Slipping from the bed, she looked around— silently cursing her lack of a weapon— then began to move soundlessly towards the kitchen, her body tense, wary, readying itself to fight.

That was, until just a moment later, when a smooth male voice called her name— and she instantly relaxed, letting out a breath in surprise and pleasure.

"Borden?" she questioned, stepping out of the hall to see him waiting patiently near the doorway, his coat already hanging on a nearby hook, his suit as crisp as ever.

"Ah, good afternoon, Jane," he said with a small inclination of his head, "I apologize if I disturbed your rest."

"No, that's okay," she assured him, then gave him a shy, hesitant smile. "I'm glad to see you."

"And I, you," he replied with a smile, his words sincere. "I had every faith that the team would do their utmost to retrieve you safely, but there are always variables that cannot be controlled and elements that cannot be forseen, even when one's instincts are as sharp as Assistant Director Weller's or mind as brilliant as Agent Patterson's."

"Yeah, I hear you and Patterson make a pretty great team," Jane teased gently, and was delighted to see Borden's steady gaze flutter slightly, his expression turning almost bashful for just a moment before his usual unshakable composure swiftly returned.

"Ah, well, I believe that all members of this team work very well in conjunction with one another."

"Mmm-hmmm," Jane responded, then let him off the hook, gesturing towards the fridge. "Would you like something to eat? I have plenty."

"Thank you for the offer, Jane, but I believe this particular circumstance might call for something of a rather different nature," he answered, moving over to one of the cupboards and pulling out a bottle of bourbon, then two sturdy glass tumblers. Carrying them to the table, he set them down, then pulled a laptop from his bag and set it up, plugging a USB drive into the side.

Frowning in confusion, Jane took a step back, glancing at the front door. "Borden, what's going on? Where are the others?"

"The rest of the team will make their way here as soon as it is safe for them to do so," Borden explained gently, "But in the interim, Jane, there are some things I must show you."

He gestured to the seat beside him, and she slowly took it, glancing between him and the laptop screen.

"What kind of things?" she asked, an edge of apprehension in her voice because she _knew_ — knew that what he was about to show her would contain answers she had been searching for for as long as she could remember, answers that she now wasn't sure she was ready to hear. "What's this about, Borden?"

His eyes locked with hers, his softly spoken words cutting deep to her core, laying her bare.

"It's about Orion, Jane. About yourself."


	6. Redemption

The shower was every bit as luxurious as she'd predicted.

It was also an effective means of muffling the frustrated screams that tore from her throat, the only release she had for the bitter poison that coursed through her, the only relief available to her overwhelmed mind and damaged heart.

With every new document she had read, every new truth revealed, she'd felt the storm of emotions rising higher, taking her over, choking her— until it had taken every ounce of her self control not to shatter her empty glass of bourbon against the wall, Borden wisely saying nothing as she'd finally pushed herself sharply back from the table and fled to her bedroom, the door barely closing behind her before she'd yanked off every single item of clothing and stepped straight under the shower's scalding spray.

Every single answer she had gained had only yielded yet more questions, and even as the details of her origin slowly became clearer, her identity continued to remain a mystery, her present still haunted by the nameless ghost of her past.

But that wasn't the only thing that haunted her.

_Orion_.

No matter how hot the water, or how strong the soap, she could never cleanse herself of what she had learned. What she had been a _part_ of.

Stolen infants mercilessly shaped into child soldiers. An organisation of self-proclaimed revolutionaries with ruthless methods and a cult-like mentality, their operatives infiltrating not only every branch of the defense force, but also key political parties, top universities, influential companies— and worst of all, every single government agency, including the FBI.

She could only imagine what that final truth had done to Weller, the betrayals piling ever higher, slowly tearing apart the good-hearted man who had only ever wanted to do the right thing.

Orion had ruined her first life a long time ago, had turned her into a monster before she'd even left childhood— and then had very nearly succeeded in doing the same with her second life, her very existence corrupted by theirs. But then, hurting her was no great crime; after all, she could handle it, could survive being broken, being tainted and damaged, because she had never known anything different, never known how it felt to be normal or whole.

It was what they had done— what they had had _her_ do— to Weller that she could never forgive.

And for that— for _him_ — she would find a way to take them down, to make sure they could never hurt him or anyone else ever again, could never tear apart another family or turn another child into a killing machine. She would do it, even if it meant betraying him one last time, meant leaving him and the team— abandoning the very people who had saved her, who had prevented her from turning back into just another weapon in Orion's arsenal, who had given her a family and made her _Jane._

For them, she would destroy the very organization that had created her, would wipe the slate clean and find some small measure of redemption.

Even if it cost her her life.

Finally, after both screaming and scrubbing herself raw, she'd calmed enough to leave the shower, her eyes fixed on the tiled floor as she swiftly dried her reddened, stinging skin, carefully avoiding any glimpse of either the bathroom's mirrors or the indelible marks etched into her flesh. The moment she was even moderately dry, she swiftly pulled her discarded clothes back on, covering as many of the tattoos as she could. The sweatshirt she saved until last, finally scooping it up from the floor and pressing her face into it, simply breathing deeply for a minute before pulling it over her head, feeling in some small measure like she was slipping back into her true skin again, the true self she had chosen.

Jane.

_Weller's_ Jane.

Now that she was finally ready to face reality again, she made her way back to the table and settled silently in front of the laptop, steadily beginning to work her way through the information a second time— with Borden continuing to read quietly in the lounge, politely pretending to have heard nothing during her prolonged absence.

She had only skimmed through the first dozen or so documents when she heard the sound of people approaching the apartment, instantly making her close the laptop and stand, her fingers twisting in the sweatshirt's sleeves as she watched the front door quietly click open.

A moment later, Zapata and Patterson stepped through the doorway together, the former smiling knowingly at her sweatshirt while the latter simply launched herself at Jane, throwing her arms around her neck and clinging to her tightly.

"Jane! I'm so glad you're okay! Zapata told us what they'd been doing to you in there, which was just awful, and I'm so, _so_ sorry we couldn't have gotten there faster, I mean I really tried, but their system had so many firewalls and there was so much to do and plan and—"

"Patterson, stop," Jane ordered gently, her hands hovering uncertainly for a moment before slowly patting the other woman on the back, trying to find a way to reassure her. "It's okay. It means everything that you came at all."

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say; at her words, Patterson abruptly pulled back, gripping her by the shoulders and frowning heavily at her. "You sound like you didn't expect us to come after you."

When Jane was silent, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, you really didn't. God, Jane, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry we didn't understand before, but I really promise we do now."

Feeling her throat grow a little tight, Jane gave her a small, tremulous smile. "I know. Borden showed me the information Mayfair left you about Orion. Things have… changed."

Patterson's nod was vigorous, her grip tightening on her shoulders. "But we're going to fix it, Jane. All of us together. I promise."

Swallowing, Jane reached up to squeeze the other woman's hand. "Thank you, Patterson."

She saw Patterson's lip tremble slightly before the younger woman looked away, her eyes overbright. Having been watching them, Zapata chose that moment to tactfully clear her throat, nudging her slightly.

"Patterson. In the bag."

"Oh! Right!" Patterson exclaimed, her mood instantly flipping from dismay to eagerness. Confused by the sudden shift, Jane watched as she released her shoulders and hastily stepped back to rummage through her bag, before triumphantly pulling out a single piece of paper safely ensconced in a plastic protector.

Grinning, she held it out, sounding highly pleased with herself. "Here, Jane, I brought this for you."

Automatically accepting the plastic envelope, Jane looked down— and immediately fell still, seeing Weller's face staring up at her from the page, every carefully drawn line still as fresh in her mind as the moment it had first emerged from her pen.

"I'm really sorry I couldn't get the whole thing," Patterson said quickly, her excitement dimming slightly as she rushed into an explanation, the words tumbling out. "I really wanted to, but there was the security and everything, and then Reade said he'd get you a new book anyway, because apparently he does art stuff and knows about this kind of thing, which I didn't know about him? But anyway, he still helped me smuggle this out a few days ago, since I figured no one would notice one missing page— well, except Weller, but I don't think he's even looked at the book in a few days, I mean he probably has it memorized anyway after all those hours he spent staring at it, and—"

Finally noticing the looks the other two women were giving her, she abruptly cut herself off, eyes wide as she rapidly switched gears. "But um, anyway, I'm just glad you're back, Jane. And I'm gonna go say hi to Borden now."

With a self-conscious little wave, she hastily escaped to the lounge, leaving Jane and Zapata together in the entranceway. For a moment, Jane simply stared after her friend, then let her eyes lower to the page, her fingers curling securely around the clear plastic.

"So... you guys have all known the whole time," she said slowly, her voice quiet. "How I... How I feel about Weller."

"They did teach us a few things at Quantico, Jane," Zapata teased gently, then shrugged off her coat and hung it up, her voice a combination of amusement and sympathy as she turned back to face her. "Honestly, the only one that hasn't quite figured it out yet is Weller."

When Jane looked sharply up at her, searching her gaze, Zapata gave her a meaningful look. "Speaking of Weller, you should probably put that away. And you might want to change before he gets here, too. Not sure how he'd take it."

Drawing the page in close to her chest, Jane brushed her fingers lightly over one too-long sleeve, her nod reluctant. "I'll go get the other sweater."

Tilting her head, Zapata looked her over, her eyes kind. "There are more clothes your size in the wardrobe, in case you were wanting something else."

"Thanks, Tasha," Jane murmured, then shifted self-consciously, her gaze dropping. "And do you think you could thank Patterson for me, too? It... means a lot."

Giving a brief nod of acknowledgment, Zapata stepped past her, speaking over her shoulder as she moved towards the lounge. "Take your time, Jane. We're not going anywhere."

Watching her join the others in the increasingly-crowded lounge room, Jane drew a deep, slow breath, then turned and headed down the hall, the plastic envelope still held securely against her chest, its edges cool and smooth beneath her fingers. Slipping into her room, she paused for only a fraction of a second before moving straight to the nightstand, refusing to feel embarrassed as she set the drawing gently down where it would be within easy reach as she slept. Then, she simply looked down at it for a moment, one finger lightly tracing over the familiar lines— and at last, she finally felt something deep inside her slowly begin to settle, responding to the one thing that had always been able to calm her.

Eventually, she forced herself to look away, to let go of the moment— though not the feeling, never that feeling— sighing softly as she left the drawing safely on the nightstand and moved away, stepping into the walk-in robe to examine the options that the team had left for her.

Within a minute, she was dressed in her usual tank top and black jacket, and while she already missed the sweatshirt— even as she carried it back to the bedroom and tucked it securely under her pillow, out of sight— the familiar outfit did help to make her feel more like the Jane she'd been, giving her the confidence to step back out into the hall, to return to the lounge and the friends that occupied it.

She'd barely gone more than a few feet from the bedroom, however, when she heard a deep male voice drifting from the direction of the kitchen, instantly making her breath catch, her steps faltering. For that split second she was frozen, heart stuttering, before she drew in a sharp breath— it wasn't even the right voice, and yet it still had the butterflies stirring in her stomach— and determinedly shook it off, straightening her shoulders and continuing purposefully toward the kitchen and lounge.

When she reached the threshold, she found Reade at the table pouring a fresh glass of bourbon, a smile still on his face from whatever Zapata had just said.

As she hesitated uncertainly in the doorway, he suddenly looked up from his task, the bottle slowly lowering as he looked her up and down. Then, carefully placing the bottle back down on the table, he approached slowly, pausing solemnly before her.

"You doing okay, Jane?"

"Yeah," she answered quietly, then cleared her throat, her voice growing a little stronger. "Thanks, Reade… for the book, and for being a part of this, when you didn't have to."

"Yeah I did, Jane. Family's family," he said, his tone containing none of the reserve he'd previously always shown her, his hand reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. Then, his eyes scanned her face, seeming to gauge her reaction before he smiling crookedly and stepping closer, looping an arm around her shoulders. "C'mon, let me get you another drink. Borden said you got through the whole Orion file on only one, and a bombshell like that calls for at least three."

Feeling a little shell-shocked— after Weller, Reade was the one she had most expected to harbor resentment toward her— Jane smiled shyly, then let him pull her over to the table and pour her another glass before they both made their way to the lounge together. As Reade plunked into the spot beside Zapata on the smaller couch, Jane chose not to take the empty space between Borden and Patterson, instead curling herself into the large, well-cushioned armchair that sat at the junction between the two couches. Then, looking around at the four of them, she drew in an unsteady breath, feeling a timid warmth begin to bloom in her chest, its small flame tempered by worry.

"Are you guys sure it's safe for you to be here?" she questioned anxiously, her fingers gripping the glass tightly in an effort to keep them from fidgeting, already missing the comfort provided by the sweatshirt's long sleeves. "What if someone suspects you of helping me escape?"

"Oh, they do," Reade said smugly, then tipped his drink approvingly at Borden. "But they questioned us about it all afternoon and couldn't find a single fault in our answers, or in our excellent alibis, so right now they got nothing on us."

"Plus, as far as anyone in the NYO is concerned, we think you're a criminal and have severed all ties with you," Zapata added, leaning around Reade to lock eyes with Jane. "It's why we had to be so cold toward you back there in the interview room."

Jane blinked. "You what?"

Zapata's words were matter-of-fact, but her gaze was almost apologetic. "We already knew about Orion, Jane. Everything you told us just confirmed what we already thought— that despite your mistakes, you were a victim, too. We just couldn't show it."

"You all really thought that?" Jane asked disbelievingly, looking around at them with wide eyes, her drink forgotten in her hands.

"Well, some of us did take— or _are_ taking— longer than others," Zapata answered pointedly, "But once you have all the information, it's the kind of truth you can't really hide from for long."

"Exactly, it's only a matter of time," Patterson reassured her hurriedly, her gaze earnest. Then, with a small, almost nervous smile, she quickly switched subjects. "But just saying, there totally was a car on both mine and Tasha's apartments tonight. So I went over to her place, and thanks to her sister and a few friends having a wine and cheese party, both tails think we're still there."

Leaning lazily back into the couch, Reade nodded in agreement. "There was someone on my place too, so I walked into this sex club I know and walked right out the other side. They're probably still sitting out front, turning green with envy over my stamina."

Zapata snorted at that, shooting him a look. "You just happened to know about this convenient sex club, huh?"

"What? It's right near my place. I've used it before—" seeing her expression, he feigned disgust. "To _lose_ a _tail_. Natasha Zapata, you need to get that mind out of the gutter. I'm a taken man."

"Wait, you are? I thought—" Jane began, then abruptly cut herself off, embarrassed.

Instead of waving her off, though, Reade simply gave her a small smile, gesturing toward her with his glass. "I took a leaf out of your book, Jane, and tried a little honesty. Sarah showed up at mine after they… after what happened with their dad, and I told her the truth about why I'd pushed her away. There was a lot of yelling and things being thrown in my direction, but I think we're in a good place now."

Eyes wide, she voiced the question before she could stop herself. "What did Weller do?"

"He backed me up," Reade answered simply, his expression becoming sly as he added, "I think he's starting to realize that truly loving someone means standing by them, no matter what."

Flushing, Jane looked away from his all-too-knowing gaze, swiftly directing the conversation toward Borden instead.

"And what about your tail?"

"There was no one surveilling me, Jane," Borden said mildly, just the tiniest hint of a smile playing about his eyes as he deliberately adopted his most professional demeanor. "After all, I am a well-respected psychiatrist with multiple accolades and a spotless record, and I was proven without a shadow of a doubt to be present in the NYO for the entirety of your escape. In fact, rather than being questioned, I was asked to provide professional input and advice regarding your possible destination and plans, given my position as your psychiatrist."

Pausing, he lifted a devilish eyebrow. "Apparently, it is completely inconceivable to the FBI that I would ever willingly aid and abet a wanted felon, which certainly made misdirecting them all the easier."

As Patterson beamed at him, Zapata simply shook her head. "God, I really hope you never set your sights on world domination, Doc."

"Oh, don't worry, Agent Zapata," Borden told her with a smile, "In such a situation I would certainly be in need of a good team of advisors."

As the others all laughed, Jane found herself truly smiling along, the lightness of the mood feeling both strange and beautiful to her, a bright spark amongst the darkness that had surrounded her since the night Weller's cuffs had closed around her wrists, the night when she'd lost everything yet again.

Of the many things she would forever be grateful to her team for, that spark was one she would never forget.

"So Reade, did you and Misty have a fun time today?" Zapata prodded a few moments later, grinning. "What'd you guys talk about?"

"Actually, she was really interesting to talk to," he said earnestly, clearly impressed. "Knew a ridiculous amount about economic theory and applied mathematics, and she was huge on baseball. You guys would actually get along really well."

Twisting sideways on the couch, Zapata casually plonked her legs onto his lap, her expression mischievous. "Great, maybe we can invite her around sometime, I'll introduce her to Sarah—"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Reade glowered at her. "Woman, why you gotta be like that—"

Watching as they continued to banter back and forth, Jane felt the warmth in her chest grow a little bolder, a tiny smile still lingering on her lips. Aside from those two all-too-fleeting moments she'd spent in Weller's arms, this was the happiest she could ever remember being— and yet still, she already knew it would never be enough. Not until he was here.

There were very few things she truly knew about herself, but of them all, that was the clearest; the one truth she could never doubt.

She _needed_ Weller.

Ever since the day she had come out of that bag, she had always felt his absence like a tangible thing, her connection to him as indelible as his name on her skin. And even now, with the rest of her family around her, she could feel that familiar ache growing stronger, feel her attention steadily waning; her eyes continually straying to the door, her gut twisting with every hint of noise from outside the apartment, every possible indication of his appearance.

And yet, when it finally happened, she still wasn't prepared.

She was staring silently into her glass, not actively participating in either of the conversations happening on each separate couch— the others seemed to understand her preoccupation, though, and didn't push her— when the unmistakeable sound of a key turning in the lock made her breath hitch, her head instantly snapping up to stare at the door.

A fraction of a second later, it began to open, her heart skittering wildly as Weller at last stepped through— the _real_ Weller, no longer the masked thug from her rescue, but the man who had saved her in every other sense, who was more important to her than anyone or anything in any of her three lives.

_Her_ Weller.

"About time, Weller," Zapata drawled in greeting, and he shot her a dry look before carefully locking the door, pausing briefly on his way to the lounge to pour himself a glass of bourbon.

"Yeah, well, some of us had meetings to go to after all the questioning was done," he retorted, then grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and joined the rest of the team, nodding in greeting as he looked to each of the couches that flanked her. "Guys."

Then, he looked in her direction, his eyes— now back to their familiar blue— almost but not quite meeting hers. "Jane."

"Weller," she managed to reply, ignoring both the riot of butterflies in her stomach and the overly-interested gazes of the rest of the team. "Thanks for coming."

Nodding vaguely, he put down his bag and took a seat, eyes fixed on a point on the wall as he took a sip of his drink.

"So you're here, which means the disguise must have held up, right?" Patterson asked immediately, looking him over with worried eyes. "No suspicion?"

Shifting his gaze, Weller gave her a reassuring smile— a _real_ smile, one that made Jane's heart twist painfully in her chest, knowing that he'd likely never smile at her like that ever again. "Well, considering the outfit, the camera outage, and the fact that the only witnesses were a little hazy with their descriptions after being tranq'd, I think I'm in the clear. And thanks to those ridiculous shoes, any footprint I left is gonna be completely the wrong size."

"But you were still tailed, yeah?" Reade asked, leaning forward and looking at him with interest. "How long did it take you to lose yours?"

Weller glanced at him, raising a knowing eyebrow. "You used the sex club trick again, didn't you? Sarah would not like that."

"You people..." Reade muttered darkly as Zapata stifled a laugh beside him, his eyes narrowing at her for a moment before he simply shook his head and turned back to Weller. "Look, I'm totally on board with the openness and honesty thing in relationships now, but I think this may be an exception to the rule."

"Smart man," Weller answered wryly, then leaned to the side, hefting the gym bag that sat beside his chair. "My tail currently thinks I'm in a 24 hour members-only gym. The owner's a buddy of mine, he doesn't mind me using the staff exit out the back."

"Oh, that's a good one. Much less embarrassing to use frequently, too," Zapata teased, poking Reade in the stomach with her foot.

"Ha-ha, shut up," Reade told her, then focused back on Weller, suddenly all business. "So how'd it go with the director, anyway? We in?"

"Wait, in what?" Jane interjected, confusion and concern outweighing her hesitation.

"I went to the director this afternoon to convince him to let our team handle the FBI's side of the search for you and Rich," Weller said evenly, eyes flicking her way for just a fleeting moment before his gaze turned to Borden. "I used those strategies we practiced, Borden, and I guess they worked, because it's our case now. Agent Redman is briefing us all in the morning."

"Yes!" Patterson exclaimed sharply, pumping a fist in the air while the others grinned.

Jane, however, shrank a little in her chair, little tendrils of fear unfurling in her gut. "Isn't that a risk to all of you?"

"Not if we play our cards right," Reade assured her, looking confident. "And while we pretend to be tracking you down, we have the perfect excuse to discreetly investigate Orion using FBI resources."

"Plus, now that the case is ours, I call the shots," Weller said, his voice mild, betraying nothing. "I already informed the director that if and when we located you, you would not be handed over to the CIA, but instead brought back to the NYO and kept under FBI protection indefinitely. It's just a fail-safe— if the safehouses are compromised and we need to get you somewhere secure, we just have to 'find' you and bring you in where you'll be under our guard 24/7."

Even as he spoke, he kept his attention on his glass, carefully avoiding her wide-eyed, stunned gaze, never seeing how much his words meant to her.

How much _he_ meant to her.

It was only when Borden spoke up several seconds later that she was finally able to tear her eyes from Weller, her shaking hands gripping her glass tightly to keep her from reaching for him, her heart thudding unsteadily in her chest.

"But naturally, Jane, that would be a last resort," Borden explained gently, "We expect you to be able to remain here safely for as long as is needed."

Still reeling, Jane swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. "Needed to what, exactly?"

"To take down Orion and clear you, Jane," Patterson answered instantly, seemingly speaking for the group as the others all nodded in agreement, all eyes but Weller's fixed on her.

Overwhelmed, Jane felt her throat close over, her words emerging as barely more than a hoarse whisper. "You really— that's really the plan?"

"It is," Weller confirmed matter-of-factly, then deliberately shifted the group's focus, seeming to know she needed a minute to recover. "And it starts now. Patterson, you want to get us set up?"

"Yes, Sir," Patterson saluted eagerly, immediately picking up a remote from one of the end tables and pressing a button, causing a projector screen to roll steadily down from the ceiling. Then, as the others watched, she pulled a laptop from her bag and opened it up, tapping a few keys to bring the information up onto the hanging screen.

As Patterson entered a few more commands, Jane looked around at each member of the team, at the people she loved— and, she was starting to realize, the people who loved her back.

Barely two hours ago, she'd believed her only choice would be to leave them, to fight and die alone in an attempt to destroy Orion, to do whatever it took to pay for both its crimes and her own. Now, she was part of a unit, all sharing that very same goal; all fighting together, with each other and _for_ each other— and somehow, regardless of the odds, she knew they would win.

With Weller by her side and the team at her back, nothing could stop her.

A moment later, Patterson's swift typing came to a stop, her hands hovering over the keyboard for a moment as she glanced questioningly at Jane, waiting for her slight nod before straightening her shoulders and looking around at the others, clearing her throat.

"So, this is what we've got so far…"


	7. Absolution

When Patterson began to yawn mid-sentence, he knew it was time for them to go.

For the last couple of hours, they had reviewed and discussed the information they'd gathered, tossing ideas back and forth and outlining a few good leads for tracking down Shepherd and the rest of Orion. They'd all worked hard, their focus never wavering even despite their fatigue; and after all they'd been through for the rescue today, they'd more than earned a break.

Shifting forward in his chair, Weller simply held up a hand, and immediately Patterson fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

"Alright guys," he began, looking around at the team, carefully avoiding Jane's intent gaze— which had been fixed on him for much of the evening, wreaking havoc on his own concentration— as he did so. "You've all done great work, but it's time to call it a night, before our tails start getting too suspicious."

"Especially Reade's," Zapata jibed, grinning widely as Reade simply closed his eyes, sighing in defeat.

Feeling his lips twitch, Weller turned his gaze to Patterson instead, seeing her hesitating over her keyboard, her questioning gaze still focused on his. At his slight nod, she obediently shut down all of their files and retracted the projector screen, then packed away the laptop into the bag that Borden was very considerately holding for her. By the time she was done, Zapata and Reade had managed to pull each other up off their couch, complaining good-naturedly as they stretched their cramped muscles.

For a few moments, Jane had simply watched them all from her chair, seeming to shrink into herself slightly, the briefest hint of sadness crossing her features— but then it was gone as quickly as it had come, and she slipped gracefully from her seat to stand among them, her stance studiously relaxed and her expression carefully neutral, hiding the loneliness that he knew awaited her with all of them gone.

Apparently, Borden had made the same observation, because he paused mid-way through lifting his bag to look at her, his voice kind.

"Will you be all right here alone, Jane?" he asked gently, the sincerity evident on his handsome face. "Agent Patterson or I could remain with you if you wish, since her tail already believes her to be staying at Agent Zapata's, and I have none."

"Yeah, I can totally stay if you want me to, Jane," Patterson offered immediately, nodding earnestly even as she smothered another yawn.

Looking away from the group, Weller determinedly quashed the stupid little spark of jealousy that had lit in his chest at Borden's offer, refusing to acknowledge the unwelcome mental images that accompanied it. He knew the suggestion was a good one; not only would Jane not be alone, but Borden was both an excellent psychiatrist and a genuinely good friend, two things that Jane truly needed right now.

After his treatment of her over the last week and a half, he highly doubted that he made it onto that list.

"Thank you, but I'll be okay," Jane assured them quietly, though it wasn't entirely clear who she was trying to convince, them or herself. From the corner of his eye he saw her muster up a smile, her shoulders lifting in a small shrug. "This place is really great, and I'm used to being alone. You should all go home and get some rest."

_I'm used to being alone._ There was no bitterness to the words, no accusation; just a simple frankness and acceptance that made his heart hurt, his hands clenching involuntarily by his sides— torn between the urge to grab something large and breakable and smash it into a million pieces, or to grab her and crush her against his chest until both of them simply forgot about everything and everyone else.

But of course he did neither; instead, he simply turned away and lifted his bag onto his chair, gripping the handle tightly and pretending to check the belongings inside. But even as he found ways to busy his hands, his mind was still stuck on her words, on the truth they'd contained.

They were both outsiders, he and Jane, both alone in their own ways— but then they'd met, and somehow they had found something in each other, a connection that had felt more real to him than anything he'd felt in a long, long time.

And even after everything that had happened, after he'd tried his best to fight it, he still felt it.

His expression thoughtful, Borden looked her over. "If you're sure?"

"I'm sure," she answered, her smile strengthening, becoming more genuine. "You guys have done more than enough for me already."

Silently relieved, Weller zipped his bag back up and placed it back on the floor before occupying himself with returning his chair to the kitchen table, half-watching as the team moved noisily to the front door, pulling on their coats and collecting their things. And in the middle of all of them was Jane, shyly exchanging hugs and goodnights on the threshold, her voice wavering just slightly as she thanked them all again.

And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they all simply called out a chorus of goodnights to him and left without a backward glance, leaving he and Jane on their own in the quiet apartment, truly alone together for the first time since the night he'd arrested her.

The night he'd made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

By the time Jane hesitantly closed the door and turned around, he was already back in the lounge, straightening the couches back into their original places before silently collecting the empty glasses and bottles.

"You don't have to do that," Jane said quietly, hanging back at a cautious distance as he moved past her into the kitchen, his eyes never lifting from the floor.

"It's fine, I got it," he muttered, setting everything down on the counter before clearing his throat and gesturing towards the hall. "Go get some rest, Jane. I'll take care of the dishes and then head to the guest room."

Until the very second the words left his mouth, he truly hadn't been sure he'd have the strength to speak them, making him almost surprised at how easily they'd flowed out. Jane seemed equally taken aback, her voice faltering.

"You'll... what?"

"You just spent two days being tortured and locked in a box by turns, Jane," he answered gruffly, focusing all his attention on running hot water into the sink, letting the scalding temperature distract him from thinking too much about what she'd endured in those two days, what he himself had condemned her to. Clenching his jaw, he went on, "There is no way you should be left in an unfamiliar place alone after that. Plus, we can't be entirely certain that this safehouse is secure, and I'm not taking chances."

"You don't— you don't need to do this," she whispered unsteadily, arms wrapping around herself, as if she needed protection from his kindness as much as his anger.

Shutting off the faucet, Weller picked up the sponge, his voice low, his words as cool and impersonal as he could make them. "Tell me something, Jane. Were you lying when you said that everything you did was to protect us?"

From the edge of his vision, he saw her straighten, her arms uncrossing. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but still firm. "No."

"Then it's our turn to protect you," he told her bluntly, fighting to keep the raw emotion inside him from bleeding into his voice. He'd once sworn he would protect her from anything— and then he'd gone and become the very thing she'd needed protection from. He wouldn't— couldn't— fail like that again.

Feeling suddenly drained— by the conversation, by her nearness, by every single goddamn moment of the last ten days— he let out a small sigh, then attempted to close off any further discussion. "Look, finding Orion means finding answers, and you're the key to that. So go get some sleep."

Seemingly understanding that she'd been dismissed, Jane bit her lip, then slowly turned and moved silently toward the hallway, never seeing the shadow of regret that crossed his face, the pained breath that escaped his lips. Pausing at the threshold, she glanced back at him, her words soft, tentative. "Kurt… I'm sorry. About Taylor. And… everything."

Giving a terse nod, he kept his focus firmly on the glass in his hands, pretending not to notice the way she hovered uncertainly in the doorway, clearly wanting to say more. After another moment, though, he heard her sigh softly, and knew that she had given in, clearly believing that he wanted nothing further to do with her.

Right now, even _he_ had no idea what he truly wanted— but as she turned away, there was something that he suddenly knew he _needed_ , one answer that he simply had to hear, not for the team or the mission, but for himself.

"Jane."

Halting, she turned back toward him, the tension in her body palpable even from where he stood.

Clearing his throat, Weller stared blindly at his damp hands, his voice rough as he forced the words out. "That day in the interview room, you didn't seem to hold anything back. You admitted to lying, to sabotage, to _murder_."

Gripping the sponge tightly, he drew in a deep breath, willing her to give him the truth, to make him understand. "But you didn't say a word about when we— about the kisses. Why?"

For a long moment, a heavy silence stretched between them, and somehow he found himself holding his breath, his body tense as he waited for her to speak.

"Those were ours," she answered finally, her voice soft, a whispered confession. "Just ours. I'll give up every other part of me, but not those."

Then, without waiting for any kind of response, she turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving him alone with the echo of her words.

For several seconds he simply stood there, staring down the empty hallway after her; then, blowing out an unsteady breath, he turned back to sink and picked up the first of the dirty dishes, determinedly focusing on nothing but the task before him.

All too soon, though, the last glass was stacked neatly beside the sink, and he rubbed at his eyes, purposefully avoiding looking towards the faintly-outlined doorway that lay at the end of the hall. Instead, he simply grabbed his gym bag from the lounge and headed into the guest room, leaving the door open just a fraction of an inch behind him.

Just in case.

Two hours later, he was still staring blankly at the ceiling, cursing the stupid, impulsive choices that had led him to be here right now, returning to the very cause of his destruction like a burned man walking willingly into an inferno. It was masochism to the point of idiocy, and yet he knew he wouldn't leave; knew he _couldn't_ leave, couldn't abandon her a second time and leave her to suffer alone.

He just wished he could sleep, wished he could find an escape from the grief that burrowed beneath his ribs in the quiet moments, the guilt and pain stabbing deep, stealing his breath.

Somehow, though, in the few nights since Jane's confession he'd no longer felt quite like he was drowning, like he was only sinking down deeper with no way back to the surface. Instead— after he'd listened to her pour out her soul and realized, slowly, that he _believed_ her— the pain had changed, twisted, becoming a convoluted mess of emotions that he was still struggling to understand, still working to accept.

There was something he did know, though.

Jane may not have been his childhood friend, may not have been the absolution from the guilt he'd carried for two and a half decades— but ever since they'd met, she had always made the weight he carried easier to bear somehow, had always known how to soothe his pain with a look or touch or gentle word, reaching out to him like a lifeline, keeping him from sinking beneath the waves.

And maybe it was that feeling he was chasing right now, hoping her simple nearness would ease the pain, keep the grief at bay.

Or maybe it was because she'd been out of his sight, out of his protection, for two whole days— two days at the mercy of men who wouldn't even see her as human, just a barrier they needed to break— and he had spent every goddamn second completely scared out of his mind, his every moment haunted by two separate ghosts, the little girl he'd lost forever and the woman he'd do anything to get back.

And now he had. Now she was really _here_ , just a matter of steps down the hallway, whole and alive and trying so hard to be strong, to keep them from seeing all the fear and pain she herself carried, the scars that went far deeper than skin.

But he saw.

He saw, because even if he didn't know where she'd come from or who she'd been, he knew who she _was_ , knew _her_. She was _Jane_ , his teammate, his partner, his friend. She was the woman he'd fallen for, regardless of whether or not she'd been the girl he'd loved twenty-five years ago. Even when he'd hated her, he'd loved her, and now… now, after hearing the truth, he couldn't hate her.

He knew he hadn't forgiven her completely, not yet; but he was done persecuting her, done treating her like the enemy. He'd spent much of the last week and a half blaming her, cursing her, but the more he did— the more he'd tried punishing her— the more he'd only ended up hurting himself, hating himself for what he'd done, what he'd become.

And deep down, he knew he would forgive her long before he forgave himself.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Weller scrubbed a hand across his face, then gave up all attempts at sleep, rolling from the bed and forcing himself to his feet. As he stepped out of the bedroom, his eyes automatically turned towards the closed door down the hall, lingering for a long moment before he finally shook his head and headed to the lounge, leaning against the wall by one of the windows as he stared down into the street below.

He was still there, staring out into the night— watching the cabs and occasional pedestrians pass by— when he sensed the subtle shift in the room, the feeling followed a few moments later by the tiny sound of one of the kitchen cupboards opening, the first audible indication that she was even there.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked mildly, not looking up from his spot by the window. Even from where he stood, he heard her sharply indrawn breath, her reaction sending a flicker of surprise through him; Jane always knew every inch of any space she occupied, always alert and aware of the presence of potential threats. To have caught her unawares just now meant that she'd felt secure enough here in the apartment— here in the apartment _with him_ — to let down her guard, something he'd only ever glimpsed in the all-too-fleeting moments when she'd been in his arms.

"No," she answered eventually, interrupting his thoughts. Setting the glass down on the countertop, she continued hesitantly, "I got a little sleep after Zapata dropped me off here, but now that the exhaustion is gone… I... see things in the dark."

"Me too," he admitted, then slowly turned to look at her through the gloom, seeing her lingering by the end of the kitchen counter, her glass now forgotten by the sink. As his eyes registered the oversized sweatshirt she wore, he frowned slightly, taking a step closer to squint at the familiar garment.

"Is that my sweatshirt?"

Instantly, he saw her shoulders hunch, her hands swallowed by the too-long sleeves as her arms wrapped protectively around herself. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, her trepidation clear. "Yes."

Torn between a primal kind of possessiveness that came with seeing her in his clothes, and complete dismay at seeing her so clearly bracing for his anger, Weller swallowed hard, carefully keeping his voice as calm and non-threatening as possible. "How did you get it?"

Shifting slightly, Jane looked at the floor. "Zapata gave it to me today. She told me not to tell you."

Intrigued and a little confused, he raised an eyebrow. "And yet you just did."

"I… I promised myself I wouldn't ever lie to you again," she murmured, her eyes lifting from the floor to fix on his face. "About anything."

Hearing the utter sincerity in the admission, Weller drew in a ragged breath, rubbing a hand over his forehead before stepping over the couch and sinking down onto it.

"Did you want some water?" she asked hesitantly after a moment, then paused. "…Or something stronger?"

Eyes closed, he shook his head. "Water."

Resting his forehead in his hands for a moment, he breathed deeply, listening as she brought out another glass and filled each before padding over, leaving plenty of space between them as she reached out to hand him the glass. Once he took it, she shifted a step back, but hovered there, clearly uncertain of what to do next.

"You don't need my permission, Jane," he told her quietly, leaving her free to stay or go as she wished— and the moment the words were out of his mouth, she moved without hesitation, taking a seat at the other end of the couch, giving him as much space as possible while still remaining close.

For several moments, they simply sat and sipped their water in silence, the space between them heavy with all the things they didn't know how to say.

Then, suddenly, Weller felt words tumble from his mouth, giving voice to something that had been bothering him for days.

"You could have gotten away."

He felt the couch shift as she turned to look at him, heard the confused frown in her voice. "What?"

"When I arrested you," he said, his tone almost accusatory as he fought to understand. "We both know you can beat me on my best day while hardly breaking a sweat. That night, I was upset and had been drinking. You could have taken me down with one hand, but you didn't."

At the time, he'd taken her surrender as just another sign of her guilt, but now... now, he knew he'd been wrong.

About a lot of things.

As the silence stretched between them, he finally gave in and looked over at her, seeing her staring down at her tattooed hands, hands that he knew were more than capable of killing— but also of the gentlest and most tender of touches, just one of the beautiful contradictions that was Jane.

After another long moment, he saw her close her eyes and swallow hard, her voice so quiet that it had him unconsciously leaning closer, holding his breath.

"I would never fight you, Kurt," she whispered unevenly, her words heavy with both grief and conviction. "Not even for my freedom. Not even to save my life."

Then, without waiting for his reply— not that he could have given one if he'd tried, his mind still reeling from her admission— she cleared her throat, her voice emerging a little stronger, a little steadier.

"Plus, where would I have gone? My home is here. My… family, is here."

Letting out a ragged breath, Weller dropped his head, scrubbing a palm roughly over his short hair as he fought to keep himself together. This was more than he'd expected, more than he'd been ready for; more than he ever could have been ready for. He knew, of course, that this could all just be manipulation, all calculated lies— but he'd seen the look in her eyes when she'd sworn she would never lie to him again. He'd seen the truth there, and he'd believed it.

So maybe it was his turn to give her the truth.

Keeping his eyes fixed down— he couldn't look at her, not now, not yet— he sucked in a slow, shaky breath, then let the words out at last.

"I'm screwed up, Jane."

Feeling her gaze on him, he pushed on, trying to make her understand. "I— I found her body, and the first person I wanted to turn to was you. _You_ , who had just become the one person I could trust least."

Clenching his hands into fists, he stared unseeingly down at them, the words sticking like broken glass in his throat, making it hard to breathe. "I promised— I promised her I would always keep her safe. I promised you that everything was going to be okay. Then she was murdered by my own father, and now this, _everything_ , has gone to hell."

Feeling his throat close over, he dropped his face into his hands, his body shuddering violently as it fought against the tears he'd been holding back for so long.

And then through it all, he heard her whisper his name, felt her fingers come to rest lightly on his shoulder, the tentative touch becoming a little bolder when he didn't immediately shake her off or pull away.

"Kurt," she said again, the quiet sorrow in her voice cutting right to his core, squeezing his heart. "Kurt, come here."

Swallowing hard, he lifted his blurring eyes to fix on hers through the gloom, seeing the tears shining in her own eyes as she looked at him pleadingly, one hand pulling a cushion into her lap while the other tightened on his shoulder, her request clear. For a moment he hesitated, torn— there was still so much hurt between them, so much betrayal, and yet beneath it all there was still _them_ , still that unbreakable connection that he'd been trying so hard to forget.

One he no longer _wanted_ to forget.

With a long, shaky exhale, he simply gave in, shifting his body on the couch to slowly lay his head in her lap— surrendering himself to her, putting himself completely at the mercy of the one woman who could both break his heart and snap his neck as easily as she breathed.

And yet, he was finally beginning to realize that she would rather die than do either.

Breathing deeply, he stared out into the darkness of the room, feeling a tear roll down to soak into the cushion beneath his cheek as he spoke, his voice rough, broken.

"I don't know how to get through this, Jane."

"Either do I," she admitted hoarsely, her fingers tentatively coming to rest against the top of his head before slowly beginning to stroke over his short hair, the simple touch making his breath stutter, his eyes falling shut. When she spoke again, he could hear the hesitation in her voice, the fear— but also the tiny hint of hope. "But maybe… if you wanted… we could figure it out together. Maybe this could be our new starting point."

For a moment, he couldn't breathe, could only listen to the pounding of his heart in his ears as the tension in his body broke like a wave, the crushing weight he'd carried for the last week and a half finally beginning to dissipate, freeing him at last.

For almost two weeks, he'd thought Jane was the source of his pain, thought that the absence of her would heal him; but now, finally, he knew he'd had it the wrong way around all along.

And now, it was his turn to free her.

With his body so close to hers, he could feel her holding her breath, could feel the razor-sharp tension within her, her fingers having fallen still on his scalp as she waited anxiously for his response.

Letting out a long, unsteady breath, he slowly shifted onto his back and looked up at her, struck by the utter sadness on her face, the pain she was no longer trying to hide.

The pain he knew all too well.

And for the first time all night, when her eyes found his, he didn't look away; instead, he held her gaze, letting her see everything he felt, everything he'd kept so carefully hidden from her since the night of her arrest, the night that had so nearly destroyed them both. As her eyes widened, he slowly reached across to his opposite shoulder, finding her hand where it lay curled against her stomach. Keeping his touch gentle, he closed his fingers around hers— feeling the way they trembled in his— then drew her hand to his chest, placing her palm over his heart before gently pressing his own hand atop hers.

"We just keep breathing," he murmured at last, the soft words forming both a statement and a question, echoing what he had told her all those months ago, back when they were still little more than strangers linked in a way they didn't understand. Immediately, a tiny, choked sound escaped her throat, and she clenched her eyes shut as she nodded, her body shaking against his as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

Throat burning and eyes prickling with tears, Weller lifted his other hand to brush the backs of his fingers beneath her eye, feeling her turn her face into his touch, her body slowly calming with the contact. He let the touch linger, waiting until her eyes finally fluttered open and met his, then gently brushed his fingers across her cheek one last time before slowly lowering his hand to rest on his stomach, the other keeping her hand cradled securely against his chest.

After a few shaky breaths, her fingers resumed stroking lightly over his hair, her gaze dropping to their joined hands for a moment before returning to lock with his.

"We're going to fix this, Kurt," she whispered, and he could see in her eyes that she believed it; could see that she would never give up, would never stop fighting for them.

And neither would he.

Curling his fingers a little tighter around hers, he held her gaze, his voice soft but certain. "I know."

Somehow, they would do it; they would get through this, would come out stronger, even more united. They would fight beside each other and for each other, would heal and support one another and face their demons together, until they were both finally free of the ghosts that had haunted them for so long.

After all, neither of them could rewrite their past— but together, maybe they could change their future.


End file.
